White Marble
by Sianascera
Summary: Fictional alternate Universe in which Castiel is a doctor and Dean is the prisoner brought in for him to treat before his execution in the arena. Will update every Wednesday
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hello everyone. So this story kind of went out of hand. I only intended like 3000 words when I started but I just can't keep myself short. So yeah, have fun with this nasty piece of exploded inspiration. And thanks to my dear friend for always listening to my random ideas and your suggestions ;)

* * *

He is in chains when they bring him in.

That shouldn't really surprise him, not after Castiel had heard what he'd supposedly done. It had taken four men to subdue him, two of whom are now accompanying him; the other two are in too bad of a shape to walk on their own. Castiel would be lying if he said he isn't a tiny bit worried. The man has almost fought off four people on his own, putting two of them into the nearby guild hospital. He's packed with muscles, that much Castiel can see even in the state he is, and there is no doubt that he could overpower Castiel if he really wanted to.

But Castiel has been a doctor for most of his life, and he is not going to be deterred by someone's bad reputation. It's not like he's defenseless either.

Castiel watches with well-practiced impassiveness as the guards deposit him on one of his beds, fastening the ends of his chains to the rings in the wall. They are rarely used; the injured that are brought down to him are usually in a state where resistance is the least of their concerns. Not to mention that their presence in the Stadium is voluntary. But this one is different, he's not a Fighter and he has already proven that he's dangerous.

According to the Overseer the man had been a criminal sentenced to slavery in the mines, from where he had tried to escape, injuring the mine's slave master in the process. The Master wants to make an example out of him, so Castiel's orders are to treat him, make him ready for battle so that he'll provide a good show when he's executed. He has two weeks until the Mesmeralias are over and the culmination Games begin.

Castiel never had a taste for the bloody fights held in the Stadium, especially since it's his duty to care for the injured and the dying, as the Stadium's doctor.

And now there is this man, a slave of the mines, an escapee who had been caught and who brought down two full grown men and injured two others, a man destined to spill his life-blood on the white Marble floor of the Stadium. The two guards don't spare him another glance before they walk out, leaving the man at his mercy. Castiel can't help but think that maybe it's the other way round.

The man is dirty, that much is plain obvious, not just with the slate-grey dust from the mines, but also dried mud and blood and other things that Castiel cannot name. His hair is matted with dirt and blood, the real color hardly distinguishable from the filthy strands. He only wears a ragged pair of pants, torn at the seams and ripped on multiple spots, skin covered with the oily sheen of sweat where it isn't covered with dirt. A thin red line around his neck shows where his slave collar used to be. Castiel supposes it is ironic that it's his death sentence that lost the man his collar.

There's a deep cut over his left eyebrow, dripping down blood steadily, over the dark bruises swelling around the eye. There are other bruises and contusions on his body, some old and faded, but most are fresh, as are the multiple cuts on his arms and legs. He looks fine otherwise but Castiel has noted earlier that he's moving with a certain restrain, as if he's in deep pain, and judging by the big purple bruise on his chest, he has at least one cracked rib.

Considering what he's been up against, he's in remarkably good shape.

"You going to fix me up or are you planning on staring all day?" The man breaks the silence and Castiel's eyes snap up from where they've gone astray on the man's defined thighs. He was a miner, and he has the muscles to show it. His one open eye is glazed over with pain, but the startling green shines through nevertheless. There are small specks of gold in his iris, glowing in the dancing light of the fireplace.

"Okay, staring it is." The man grins, but it is strained, and it is more than obvious that he is in pain. It can't be comfortable in his position, the chains barely have any give and the shackles around his wrists force him to sit awkwardly upright with his torso slumped to relieve the tension.

"Apologies." Castiel quickly shakes off his daze and walks over to where his equipment is set on the table, prisoner or not, the man is his patient and he has sworn an oath to treat everyone with absolute care. He has failed enough things in his live, he will at least keep this oath.

There's a sound of startled surprise and Castiel's head whips around to its source. The stranger looks at him with an unfathomable expression, or maybe that's just what the bruises formed his face into. it's hard to tell and Castiel doesn't know him well enough to say for sure.

"Okay, that's new."

"What do you mean?" Castiel eyes his equipment with disdain, it's far from what he's used to from his time in the guild and he has to improvise more than he'd like to, but it will have to do. But first he needs to clean the man up, or else treating him will be rather pointless. There's a small fireplace in the room and he wisely has put on a pot with water when they brought the stranger in, it must be hot enough by now.

"I've never met a polite quack before."

"I prefer the term doctor or physician if you must." Castiel corrects him as he pulls the pot from the metal tripod and onto the stone floor. It's cooking, steam rising and he'll probably burn his hand if he puts it in right now, so he takes the time to prepare the pieces of cloth and the bandages he'll need. The fire is too small to heat the room, the stone walls absorb too much of the warmth, so even when the fire is burning fully, as it is now, it's always cold down here.

"Okay, doc." Castiel throws him a sour glance, not quite sure if he's trying to be obnoxious on purpose or if that's just the pain. Or maybe it's just his personality.

"Castiel." He says perhaps a bit more tersely then absolutely necessary.

"What?"

"Castiel, that's my name."

"Okay, nice to meet you. Castiel." He says the name with a pause, as if he's testing the sound on his tongue and then he smiles up at him, or at least he's trying to, but it comes out more as a grimace and Castiel notes with worry that a new layer of sweat has broken out on his face.

"I'm Dean." His breathing has turned a bit harsh and his one good eye seems to struggle to stay open. "Excuse me but I think I'm going to pass out now." And with that his eyelids flutter shut and he slumps forwards as far as his bonds allow.

There's an uneasy feeling in Castiel's stomach, he has allowed Dean's brash attitude to not only distract him but also to fool him enough to think that his injuries aren't as severe as they obviously are. He curses softly under his breath and dunks the first cloth in the water, ignoring the heat as he pulls it out again and quickly sets to work.

It is more difficult than it should be to cleanse Dean's skin of all the dirt, because with every inch of clean skin he uncovers, he gets more and more distracted. His skin is tanned, despite all the time he must have spent down in the mines. He is heavily muscled and the skin is mostly smooth, aside from a set of strange scars on his lower back, three thin parallel lines and a fourth crossing through them. They're a stark contrast to the splatter of whip marks on his upper back and shoulders, where the skin didn't heal as cleanly. There are other smaller scars scattered on his body, all together telling the story of a life of hardships and harsh punishments, and Castiel feels his heart squeeze tighter with every mark he uncovers.

But despite all the grime - most of which seems to be older than from the most recent events - and all the bruises and contusions, it is astounding how healthy Dean is. He's a slave of the mines, and the few Castiel has seen so far had been scrawny and malnourished, bones standing out against the stretch of their sun depraved skin, eyes hollow and useless in the harsh light of day. Maybe he hasn't been a mine slave for long, his tanned skin suggests that he at least recently spent time in the sun, and he must have had enough food to sustain these muscles.

He had been right on his first observation, two ribs are cracked, no fracture, but close enough. Castiel's glad that Dean is already unconscious, because he can fix them up now, without causing additional pain. He presses a folded cloth covered in salve over the bruise and wraps bandages around his chest with careful precision. He stitches up the cut on Dean's eyebrow next, after carefully cleaning out the wound. It's shallow but the skin is severely jagged at the edges and he's not going to take any risk. He really doesn't want to know what caused the wound either.

And all the while he keeps wondering, why he's so careful, gentle almost, and thorough in his treatment, knowing full well that Dean is not only a stranger but also sentenced to die. It shouldn't affect him as much as he does. Eventually, everyone he treats is going to die on the Marble floor, the life of a fighter is a short one. Too few survive the five years of minimum service, and those that do are often pressured into doing another five. The man is a criminal, maybe even a murderer, if anything, he's got what he deserved. There's no reason to feel pity. But there's something in the man's eye he can't forget, a haunting sadness, a secret covered by curtains of gold speckled green.

Castiel applies salve to the various bruises, more than strictly necessary, even though he knows that he shouldn't waste their already meager supplies on a stranger with a death sentence. But he can't bear the thought of doing any less, and that is a conflicted feeling in itself, because the more careful care he takes of Dean, the better the man will heal, and the more wasted his life will be when it's time for him to die. And that's probably the most messed up thing he has ever thought in his life. Castiel's hand stills, where he was just about to wrap up the last of the smaller cuts, that didn't require stitching.

It's strange to think, that after all these years, there is a stranger on his bed - one who might deserve it - and he doesn't want him to die.

There's no rational reason for him to do that, but he still does; he's been brought countless injured Fighters, all destined to die anyway, and all he's ever allowed to do is buy them a little more time. His hands take up their movement again, finishing the treatment, while his mind is still lost on his feelings. He shouldn't feel this strong, shouldn't feel anything about the man, but he's curious. He wants to know what hides behind his mask, the brash attitude and the sad eyes.

And that must be it - curiosity.

Dean groans in his sleep, face twisted into a pained grimace as he shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the chains barely allow any movement. He has his hand on Dean's shoulder before he realizes that he's doing it and then it instantly feels at home there. He can feel the tension from muscles stretched into an unnatural position and he can feel the unnatural heat signaling a fever, radiating off his skin.

It only takes a brief moment of consideration before Castiel makes a decision. The men took the key to Dean's shackles with them but Castiel has a few tricks up his sleeve. He takes the curved needle he uses for wound stitching and after some fumbling, the lock clicks open with a satisfying sound. He notices a strange round stone embedded into the metal of the cuffs. It seems familiar somehow but Castiel doesn't have the muse to ponder that now.

He's careful with removing the shackles, but the raw chafed skin sticks to the metal and Dean winces in pain as Castiel pulls his hands free. He relaxes instantly once his arms are free though, shuffling a bit until he has pulled his shoulders to the front again, and sagging to the side with a pleased sigh.

Another bit of fumbling and Dean's legs are also freed and he instantly stretches out on the thin mattress. Castiel is distracted for a moment by the roll of muscles on Dean's stomach as he stretches. But there is a flush of red on his skin and a frown etched into his features and Castiel shakes himself back into function. This won't do, he can't keep getting distracted, not when there's a patient that needs his care.

Fever is one of the more common sicknesses he has to battle, almost on a daily basis. No matter how careful he cleans out the wounds, an infection forms more often than not, and over time he has become quite skilled in the treatment. But he's careful to never allow routine take over care in his job, a fever is nothing to take lightly, and he won't make the mistake of underestimating any sickness in his chambers. He collects a few leaves from his herb bag and brews a tea for Dean. It takes a long time until he has fed the whole cup to Dean, but he takes to the task with patience, and he's rewarded by the slight relaxation of Dean's creased forehead. It will help both against the fever and with healing.

Hours pass and Castiel never once leaves the room. Dean doesn't necessarily need the supervision - not for medical matters at least - but Castiel is loath to leave him alone. Technically he isn't even allowed to leave him like that, unbound and potentially dangerous, but it goes strictly against his morals to bind him when he is in this much pain.

Besides, he has a feeling that Dean wouldn't try to hurt him, as a doctor he has learned to listen to his instincts, sometimes it decides between life and death. He keeps a cool wet cloth on Dean's forehead and regularly checks his temperature, but so far his condition hasn't improved. It hasn't deteriorated either and that is a good thing. It's not that he has anywhere else to be at the moment, no fights are held during the Mesmeralias and he didn't have a serious case patient in a while.

Rachel, his assistant, comes in at some point to check on him and it's clear that she disapproves of the unbound prisoner, but she knows him better than to say anything. She tells him the status of the rest of his small infirmary, but since there is nothing that requires his immediate attention, she leaves him alone soon after, throwing another scowl to where Dean lies on the bed.

And with that he's alone again, with nothing else to do than watching Dean's sleeping form. He looks peaceful now, the pained frown and the worry lines smoothed from his face and the red glow of fever casts an almost ethereal beauty on his features. Castiel finds himself wondering what happened to him, what crime got him into slavery, the stories behind his scars, especially the four lines on his lower back.

From what he's seen so far, he already knows that Dean is pretty spirited, but there's also an undeniable history of defiance mapped out on his back. But despite the countless scars, despite the disgust the men who brought him in treated him with, he's still whole, whatever happened to him, it did nothing to break him.

He shouldn't be this fascinated; Dean is a criminal, slavery isn't earned easily. But somehow he can't believe that Dean is a bad man, wronged maybe, but whatever he did he's done it out of good reason, of that much, Castiel is sure. And maybe that should have him worried

It is somewhere in the midst of those thoughts that he falls asleep in his chair, finally overtaken by exhaustion and the long hours he has been awake.

* * *

Something startles him awake, but he doesn't exactly know what. The room is dark, the fire has burnt down to embers and the oil lamp has guttered out of oil sometime earlier, but there is a presence there, unmistakably, that he can't shake. His back hurts from the cramped position he accidentally fell asleep in, and his legs are numb from how they're awkwardly folded under the chair.

"I thought I was dreaming you." A voice said, startlingly rough and deep, sending a shiver down Castiel's spine. And then he remembers; the man that was brought in earlier today, now lying on his bed propped up on his elbows, a dark silhouette against the darker wall behind him, the faint glow of embers reflecting on his sweat damp skin, where the blanket fell off.

Castiel blinks and slowly his eyes adjust to the darkness, peeling Dean's shape out of layers of darkness. There's still a faint red hue on his face, but the one eye he can open is clear, albeit tired. "How do you feel?"

Dean frowns, as if he just now realizes that he's injured, but then his face lights up again as he takes in the state of his body. "Quite good actually. So I really am dreaming."

This time it is Castiel's turn to frown and he tilts his head slightly, as if looking at Dean at a different angle will help to understand him better. Unsurprisingly, the altered angle does nothing to clear up his puzzlement. "You're not dreaming." No matter how much he thinks about it; Castiel can't think of a symptom Dean could have that would let him think he's dreaming. Not when he seems this lucid. And his fever has clearly broken.

"You can't be real." Dean shakes his head and his eye is wide as he gazes at Castiel like he's the rarest thing he's ever seen. "Come on man, that's just not possible."

"What do you mean? I am very real, and you are certainly not dreaming." Castiel insists, but the awestruck expression doesn't disappear from Dean's eye.

"Right. So you're basically telling me you unchained me and patched me up, apparently even gave me the good stuff." He experimentally pokes a finger against his chest, wincing as he prods against his bandaged ribs. It's true though; Castiel applied some pain-soothing liniment that helps to relax the muscles and supports the healing process. He also notes that Dean doesn't speak with the usual slang he's used to from the people he has to treat, the dialect of the slums, from where most of the Fighters originate. He had been too busy to notice it before, but there certainly is wealth behind the way Dean speaks, however roughed up it appears at the edges.

"Dude, that's crazy." Dean seems to believe finally that he's indeed awake, but that does nothing to quell the surprise in his expression. He still looks at Castiel like he's a dream, like he can't quite believe that he's real.

"The bonds hindered your healing process, and the treatment I applied to your injuries is the same as every patient of mine receives." Okay, that's not entirely true. He used more of the salve and liniment than he usually would have, and it is certainly not part of his usual treatments to sit and wait with the patient during a fever. Which Dean, come to think of it, had shaken off pretty quickly.

Dean laughs, it's a quick burst, as surprising as it is pleasant and then he grins at Castiel, or really, it's more of a smirk. "It's a shame though. The things I would do to you if I were still dreaming…" He trails off and Castiel finds himself oddly entranced by the quick flick of tongue over chapped lips, and then he has the equally odd thought to lean in and touch those same lips.

Odd.

"Now I really wish I were dreaming." Dean smirks again, but there's reservation in his eye now, as if he had retreated to somewhere deeper in his mind, a place Castiel can't follow. As if he#s trying to hide.

Castiel doesn't know what to reply to that. Technically the declaration of 'things done to him' should alarm him, especially coming from a man with a questionable history like Dean, but all he feels is a slight curiosity, curling in his stomach, a soft flutter of ideas long buried under years of duty. But still, he has no clue what to say to that.

"Your fever has broken remarkably fast, but I think it is a necessary precaution to check you over once again." He's slipped back into his 'doctor voice', the one he uses to convey to his patients what he's doing, impassive and distant, as if he's forgotten to be affable, the one that Rachel berates him for again and again, the one he can't shake because it gives him that sliver of security he needs in the face of fragile mortal life.

The last of the embers in the fireplace are dying and Castiel can feel the weariness of the night drag on his mind, tempting him to fall into one of the empty beds, but he has a responsibility to his patient, and that has and always will come first.

(A memory comes, unbidden, of angry eyes and an angrier voice, yelling at him for the impertinence of daring to put his life on the line just to try and save another. The words still sting, even after years have grated out their meaning.)

A shadow creeps over Dean's eye, at least Castiel thinks so, but maybe it's just a trick of what little light is left, and he takes that as his cue to get up and relight his oil lamp. Dean slumps back on his bed, without a word, but Castiel can feel the heaviness of the silence that suddenly fills the room. It's like there are a million voices in the air, whispering and murmuring, but he can't understand a single one of them. There's something he's missing, but he can't tell for the life of him what it is.

The lamp is empty, only a thin pool of oil left and Castiel starts on the arduous task to find the oil canister and refill the lamp in the dark. His eyes have grown used to the sparse light of the remaining embers, but it is no easy task to aim the beaked opening of the canister right and not spill any of the precious oil. He had to fight hard to even get the oil lamp, the Stadium Overseer insisted that he use tallow lamps, and only after a lot of insisting back (courtesy of Rachel) did he finally relent and allow Castiel this luxury. The light of the tallow lamps is too unsteady for his work, not to mention that all the soot in the air is of little help to his patients. It's bad enough that the shaft above the fireplace regularly clogs up and the whole room fills with smoke.

He can feel Dean's eye on him the whole time he fiddles with the lamp, and it makes him oddly self conscious, enough so that he almost spills the oil. This is new to him, the way Dean's mere presence seems able to throw him off balance, how he's spent more time pondering over Dean's words than he has over his medical studies in a long time. Strangely though, he really doesn't mind.

Dean allows him to check him over, an unreadable expression on his face as he watches Castiel's every movement. He closes his eye when Castiel puts another damp cloth on his forehead, after coming to the decision that there are still traces of fever in him. And to be sure he makes Dean another cup of herbal tea, even though that means he has to rekindle the fire. The tea relaxes Dean into a sleepy state and his eyes fall shut shortly after he finishes it, as sleep claims him once more.

It's then that he's unsure what to do, for the first time since Dean was brought in. He could stay here and continue to watch over him, but that seems redundant now, and so he figures it is time to return to his own sleeping chamber and finally get some decent rest. He covers the fire and blows out the lamp, resting one last glance on Dean's slumbering form.

"Don't go." The voice sounds sleepy, just as he is about to turn around and open the door. Dean is lying in the same position, eyes still closed, but he had unmistakably spoken. And Castiel knows he should ignore him, knows he should get some rest himself, but he has never been able to ignore the woes of his patients, has always found it hard to turn away from someone in need, no matter the cost to himself. And so he sits down in his chair again, resigning himself to spend the rest of the night in another uncomfortable position.

The faint smile that blossoms on Dean's mouth is very much worth it.

And the question of _why_ doesn't keep him up as long as he thought it would.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel spends most of his time either with Dean or thinking about Dean and he would be lying if he said it doesn't affect his work. He's distracted, thoughts constantly straying to the green eyed man in his treatment room. It's a good thing that there currently are no games in the Stadium, as it is customary during the first two weeks of the Mesmeralias. At the end of the two eek period the culmination Games will be held, to celebrate the end of the summer glow and the beginning of the harvest season, and of course, the glory of the Master. There are no other wounded men in his care right now, other than Dean, and Castiel refuses to think about the fact that this limits Dean's life to thirteen days, thirteen days before he'll have to step out onto the white Marble and die.

It's not the first time that Castiel thinks that part of his people's culture is barbaric, it's one of the reasons he has decided to become a doctor so many years ago. He had been so young and hopeful, full of visions and ideas, of saving people, bettering the world, but all that had died on the blood soaked battlefields of the Third Expansion War. Another one of those wars the Master had started to expanse his Empire, and it certainly won't be the last. But at least for now they had peace.

Castiel was far from peace though. He was left with his shattered illusion and the fate of tending to men who are doomed to die anyway. He heals them, sees to their wounds, brings them from the brink of death only to send them out to die spill their blood on the white Marble, again and again, until their luck runs out. Castiel supposes that some might find that poetic.

He has done this for years now, reluctant at first, but resigned more and more with passing time and the inevitability of death. There is nothing he can do, but try to ease the sufferings of his charges, and for a long time, he has accepted that fate, it's all he can ask for after his fall from grace. It's a memory he doesn't like, the scorn on his comrades faces, the pure unadulterated rage on Naomi's as she expelled him from their ranks, but what hurts the most is and always be the absence of Balthazar's.

The only thing that grants him peace of mind is when he visits the slums in his free time and helps the people there. On his own expenses, but looking into the faces of those he saved is all worth it.

(And then another plague sweeps through the slums, wiping out half of the population and Castiel again realizes that he lives a delusion, that this is punishment for his failure.)

But all that has changed now, just because one man was brought to him, one man who looks at him like no one else ever has, like he's something wondrous and special, and for the first time in a long while, Castiel feels the urge to change something again. Not just to prolong the inevitable, but really save someone. Because of this one man he has found hope again.

The day passes, with Rachel covering most of his duties, not that he has much to do when there are no fights, but he's still grateful for the relief. He finds himself drawn to the room he has come to think of as Dean's room, even though technically it is supposed to hold more than one patient.

Dean has been sleeping most of the day, the fever flaring back up and draining his energy, but he's awake now and his eye is fixed on Castiel, and oddly enough, his restlessness settles, just because Dean smiles at him.

"You going to stand there all day?" His voice sounds tired and there are dark shadows under his eyes, but still Castiel can feel a soft flutter in his chest, like his heart has grown wings and tries to fly away. He feels almost light when he closes the door behind him and walks in to sit in his chair at Dean's bedside again.

"What? No poking today?" Dean lies on his side again, doubtlessly to get a better look at Castiel, and he has half a mind to chide him for putting strain on his cracked ribs, but the words get lost in the depth of Dean's eye as they stare at each other. Castiel can't find the will to look away, he has seen all of it already has spent hours (as his sore muscles can tell) watching his sleeping body, but he still can't get enough. He could lose himself in Dean's eyes, in the soft flutter of his lashes, in the gentle lines the fire casts on his face.

"I'm almost disappointed. Come on doc, won't you stick something in me?" There's an unfamiliar tone in Dean's voice, a low drawl, weaving around his words, as if he's suggesting something more than the words might hint at.

"Medical procedures rarely require things to be stuck in." Castiel explains and wonders offhandedly where the idea came from in the first place. So far the only thing he has stuck into Dean was his needle to stitch up a few of his cuts, and Dean had been unconscious at the time. Maybe he is missing something again.

Dean looks at him for a moment, incredulity clearly written on his face, and Cas' frown deepens as he bursts out into seemingly random laughter.

"You're serious, aren't you?" He wipes a hand over his eyes, wincing slightly as he drags over the bruised skin, as if the laughter has brought him to tears, and Castiel tries a smile on his own, because it's a good thing to see Dean this happy. It makes Castiel feel light and at ease. "Here I thought I couldn't get any more obvious and you still don't get it. I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry man." There's humor in his voice, but also something that reminds Castiel of… fondness?

"From what I observed, you already did both."

Dean snorts and Castiel feels another smile tugging at his lips.

"You really are something else, Cas." The nickname sounds strange, yet so familiar on Dean's tongue, making itself instantly at home in Castiel's head.

"I suppose that is a compliment."

Dean laughs again, softer this time, but there is a wistful expression in his eye. "Oh Cas, the things you do to me."

"I don't understand. All I have done was treating your injuries." Castiel tilts his head, but again, the changed angle does nothing to alleviate his confusion.

"Really?" Dean's one open eye is hooded and Castiel can't remember the movement that led him to be so close up in his space all of a sudden. "You really don't understand? That's a shame." The last words are only whispered and Castiel can feel Dean's breath tickle against his skin. "Maybe I should show you."

And then there are lips on Castiel's and a warm fluttering sensation settles in his stomach. His eyes are wide for a moment, but he closes them as it seems the right thing to do, and he's rewarded when the feeling intensifies, when there's nothing but the sensation of touch left to guide him. Their stubble catches against each other, a rough sensation that s strangely enticing. Castiel's hands feel heavy on his thighs, but Dean isn't touching him anywhere else, and he doesn't know if he's supposed to touch, and so he just sits there frozen, losing himself in the soft press of lips.

They sit like that for what seems to be an eternity, but it's over far too soon. Dean pulls back and Castiel's eyes blink open and for a moment they just stare at each other. Castiel licks his lips, chasing the taste that lingers there and he watches with slight wonder as Dean's eye widens minutely. He doesn't get the time to process this, before Dean pushes back in, and this time there are hands on him, holding on to his shoulders as Dean presses his lips to Castiel, as if it is the only thing that keeps him from drowning.

Dean has sat up on the edge of the bed, legs bracketing around Castiel's and it is hard to focus on anything right now, because everything is Dean, sweet glorious Dean, and Castiel is sure that his heart will jump out of his chest any second now. There's something soft underneath his hands and he realizes with light surprise that he's moved his hands into Dean's hair, pulling him in even closer, until there's nothing in between them.

The kiss lasts longer this time, and Castiel is loath to let go when Dean pulls back, but he's soothed by the close proximity that he maintains. "You have never done this before, haven't you?" Dean's voice sounds breathless, and his smile warms Castiel to the bones. For the first time since they met there is not a hint of pain in Dean's eye, only a soft glimmer, a spark of something Castiel can't name.

"I never had the occasion." He's sure he's addicted to the sound of Dean's laugh, every time he hears it his heart seems to swell with so much warmth like it's trying to burst out of his chest. It's an unfamiliar feeling, one he's never had before, but Castiel already knows he'll never be able to live without it again.

"Damn it Cas. You really have no idea what you're doing to me, have you?" Castiel isn't any the wiser about what Dean means with it this time.

"What am I doing to you?"

Dean's hand trails along Castiel's arm, to where his hand still rests on the side of his neck and he weaves his fingers through Castiel's. "Do you feel that?" He asks when he presses the palm of Castiel's hand to his chest. Castiel frowns; there is nothing but the thick feeling of bandages under the shirt he lent to Dean. This can't be what Dean wants him to feel?

Dean must have read his confusion, because he furrows his brows and then chuckles quietly. "Damn, I forgot about those." His hand tightens around Castiel's, before he gently moves it away. Castiel's heart almost stops when Dean starts to pull off his shirt, and that really shouldn't affect him like that. He has seen Dean's chest already, but somehow it's different now. He knows he should object when Dean carefully pushes his hand under the bandages around his chest, especially when he sees the wince of pain as he brushes over the cracked ribs. But he can't bring himself to say anything; he's entranced by the burning heat of Dean's skin under his touch, a heat that, he's sure, doesn't come from the fever.

And there it is, the steady beat of a heart, pulsing through his fingertips, racing through his arm and into his own chest, until his whole body seems to be suffused by the feeling.

"See? That's all you." Castiel doesn't exactly 'see' it, but he does accept the comment for what it is. A hint at something deeper, something that Castiel can't quite parse yet.

"I feel the same." Castiel quietly admits and Dean lets out a sharp breath of air. He's not exactly sure, what it is that he feels, but he's sure that he wants to find out, even if there is the chance that Dean might feel something similar. And even though he knows that they have no chance and no future, because Dean will die soon, he also knows he will forever regret it if he doesn't reach out for it now.

"Really now?" Dean's voice is low and full of silent laughter and he doesn't even wait for an answer before he places a soft kiss on Castiel's cheek, their hands still trapped between them, over Dean's unrelenting heartbeat. He trails kisses down to Castiel's mouth, caught between laughter and wonder as he maps out every inch he can reach. "You're lucky that I'm down for the count, or else I would make your pretty little mouth sing like a bird for me."

"I'm not quite sure what you're trying to insinuate, but I gather it is supposed to please me?"

"Oh come on, I tried to be poetic here, can't you give me some credit?"

"I still don't understand what you were referring to."

Dean laughs and shakes his head. "You really are this innocent, aren't you? And here I am, thinking about all the nasty things I want to do to you, and you have no idea. Look at me, corrupting the angel. I really must be a fiend."

"Dean, you're not a fiend." Castiel says with determination, but there is already a shadow pulling over Dean's features. Like his words have conjured something he had tried to ignore until now.

"You don't know that. You don't even know what I did to end up here." Dean grimaces and pulls back, leaving spots of cold and empty skin on Castiel's body, where his touch lingered only moments before. "You really shouldn't trust people this easily. Things like that can get you killed." There's a hard edge in his voice and he won't meet Castiel's eyes.

"Dean, what is wrong?"

"Nothing Cas. I'm tired, I need rest." The words sting, even more so when Dean turns his back to him, lying on his side to face the wall.

"Please, let me at least check on your bandage." Dean's shoulders tense, and Castiel is not sure if it's because he slipped back into his doctor's voice or if there's something else. But he stays silent and Castiel can do nothing but watch his back.

"Are you going to stand there forever? Really man, watching a guy sleep is fucking creepy." Castiel sighs. He can't say what had changed, but whatever it was; it has Dean no longer wanting his company. Maybe he misinterpreted something, maybe he just imagined it.

The closing of the door seems almost final, as he pulls it shut, and only then does it occur to him, that despite everything he said, Castiel never once thought it necessary to chain up Dean again. He still can't believe he's a bad man after all, and that makes Dean's rejection even worse. He doesn't know how long he stands there, fingers pressed against his lips, lost in the memory of Dean kissing him, but when he finally moves away, it is with a heavy heart and a sense of loss he can't explain.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel doesn't sleep well that night; he's haunted by dreams of the past, nightmares filled with screams and blood, and the stench of death all around, a shock of red hair, trampled into the dirt and the overwhelming panic permeating the air. It has been years since the last time he had that dream, and just like then he wakes up soaked in sweat and with the lingering sense of dread in his system. He doesn't know what triggered it, but he very well now that it's a bad sign.

He has neglected his medical duties. He has allowed Dean to distract him, has allowed that Dean tempers with his applied treatment, and worst, he has let Dean get into his head. He's a doctor, pledged to help those who can't help themselves, and even though he has been expelled from the guild, he has sworn to uphold at least that oath, if nothing else. And he has accepted his punishment, to look after those he can't save, ease their sufferings, and he will do that until the guild will accept him back, or until he dies. It's what he deserves after all, he brought disgrace to his guild, he disobeyed Naomi's orders and he endangered the lives of his comrades.

The memory is still fresh, the details barely diminished over time. The stench of death around him overruled by the sharp tang of the blood on his hands. The woman under his hands breathing shallower with every passing second. The shouts of his comrades around him, Naomi's voice barking orders at him, but he can't go, not now, when there's still hope, when he can still save her. And then everything vanishes in a flash of white and when his sight clears again, half of the scenery is gone and the street swims in blood. But the thing that has itself irrevocably embedded in his mind is the memory of the heavy weight on top of his body, something warm dribbling on his neck and the slowly building dread as the realization dawns on him.

That day his best friend died, because Castiel refused to leave a stranger to die, because he ignored Naomi's orders to retreat, putting his whole team at risk. Because he valued the life of a stranger over his own. And now, so many years later he still holds on to that, because despite of how often he mocked him, Balthazar was still willing to throw his life away to save Castiel's. And because deep down Castiel knows that Balthazar was proud of him, and it wouldn't do his sacrifice justice if Castiel changed that intrinsic part of himself.

Naomi will never take him back, he knows that. In her eyes he hasn't just caused the death of his comrades, he has also shamed the name of the guild, tainted their reputation, and maybe she's even right with that- Castiel doesn't know. He has long since come to the conclusion that, albeit effective, the military organization of the guild was rather oppressing. Healers needed to have a heart, that's what Balthazar used to say, a heart and common sense (which Castiel apparently lacked), and a bit of intuition. Samandiriel used to say that Castiel had too much heart, to which Balthazar always would reply, that it was what made him what he was, and then they always would share a drink and a laugh at some joke that was beyond Castiel's comprehension.

It had taken him a long time to accept his fate, the deaths weighing down on his shoulders and he has come to peace with what he chose to be his punishment. But Dean made him forget all that, Dean gave him hope for something better, for something he doesn't deserve. And for a short time, Castiel was reminded of how it feels to live for his own sake, not just for the sake of others, for more than just repentance.

But he can't allow that, he doesn't deserve happiness, he's supposed to repent for the lives he's taken, for the harm he's caused, and Dean is just like any other patients, destined to lose his life, just like all the other Fighters he patched up.

Dean is awake when Castiel finally goes to check on him, after he's done some well needed grooming and shaving, but his back is turned to him and he refuses to acknowledge Castiel with anything more than a twitch of shoulders. That could have been accidentally though. But that suits Castiel just fine, it's easier to resist the temptation like this and he hates to admit that, but the sight of Dean alone, even though it was only his back, was almost enough to make his conviction waver.

"Dean, I have to check on your injuries." This is at least something he's used to, something he can handle; difficult patients that refuse to heed his words. "Allow me to check on you or I'll be forced to call the guards." It's a threat he's used so many times before that it feels dull on his tongue. Most of his patients are grateful for his help, but there are always those who fight him, who refuse to cooperate, simply out of fear or stubbornness and Castiel can't tell how often he thought how ironic it is to force treatment on men who'll die anyway.

Dean growls lowly but turns around anyway, stubbornly looking anywhere but at Castiel. His eye is still swollen but there is a tiny line of green visible between his lids. The skin is still purplish-blue, but there are yellow spots already, a clear sign that the bruises are healing. His face is covered in stubble and Castiel thinks he might need a shave soon too.

"I knew you where to good to be true." Dean says and Castiel stills his hands in the middle of un-wrapping the bandage around Dean's chest. But Dean doesn't say anything more and Castiel doesn't know what there is to reply. He wants to say something, he wants to smooth out the hard lines of Dean's tensed up shoulders, he wants to repeat their kisses from yesterday, he wants to forget his duty and indulge himself, forget that there is a tomorrow, forget that their lives are incompatible. He wants to taste every little part of this man, he wants to lose himself in those green eyes and forget the world around him. Castiel just wants so much at once, that his hand is frozen in midair on its way to - Castiel doesn't even know where it was supposed to go.

Dean looks at him, a frown on his face and his tone is almost mocking when he finally speaks again. "What? Don't know what to say? I kind of have that effect." There's a bitter tinge to his voice, as if he had expected something from Castiel that he failed to deliver. Castiel drops his hand, the want is still burning under his skin but it feels disconnected, like he's sharing the feelings of someone else. There's something he's missing again, something in the way Dean's shoulders are hunched, as if he expects a blow that'll never come.

"Let me finish treating your wounds." Castiel finally says and his voice sounds softer than intended. Dean looks surprised for a moment, but then he pulls his mask back on almost instantly afterwards.

"Sure." His voice sounds easy, almost flippant, but his body speaks an entire different language. He lies down again, hands braced on his side, vulnerable and open, but at the same time it is obviously clear how uncomfortable the position makes him. It is yet another side of Dean, another facet, and Castiel is yet again unsure of how to react to that. An effect Dean seems to have quite often on him. There's a faint ache in his heart, a constant pulsing want to reach out and touch Dean, to pull the sadness from his eyes, to make it all better.

And somehow that feeling travels to his tongue and he speaks before he can even think about it. "Dean, what happened?" There are so many questions forced into this one. _What happened to you that you ended up here? What happened to you that made you so afraid of intimacy? What happened between us? _And even: _What happened to you doing things to me?_

He shouldn't be doing this, getting close to Dean, assuming that it's still possible, will distract him even further from his work, and he's not supposed to allow himself any indulgences. But Castiel has spent so many years with penance, with denying himself, with watching the inevitable circle of death on the Marble floor and he just can't find the will to withstand anymore. He wants this, and even though it will hurt, even though Dean's time is limited, he's not going to let this chance slip without a fight. And maybe that makes him weak, then so be it.

Dean looks at him, just looks at him and for a moment Castiel is sure that he will tell him off, push him away and hide behind his mask again, but then something seems to slip and his face softens. And then Dean's stare intensifies, it's like he's searching for something in Castiel's face and he's not sure if he finds it but then something changes in Dean's mimic again and he smiles, ever so slightly.

"I should have known I can't get you off my back."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Are you sure you want to go there?" He doesn't need to elaborate for Castiel to understand the implications. Dean is aware of his death sentence, is as much aware of it as Castiel is, and he also knows what that means for them. But Castiel has already made that decision.

"Yes, I am sure."

Dean smiles and it manages to both make Castiel's stomach flutter and wrench his heart. It's sad and hopeful at the same time, and Dean looks up at him like he's the most precious thing in the world. "I really should apologize then, shouldn't I?"

Castiel just nods, at a loss of words, but for the time being it's enough for him to just watch Dean.

"I need you to realize that this won't have a happy end." Dean's voice is serious, and Castiel sits down in his chair, because he gets a feeling he doesn't want to be standing for this.

"I know that Dean." He says, after it becomes clear that Dean won't continue without some form of reply. Castiel's voice sounds gravellier than expected and he has to clear his throat a few times before he gets rid of the dry feeling that has settled there. "But I'm willing to try anyway." He adds after a short moment of hesitation, it seems to have been the right thing, because something settles on Dean's face and he suddenly seems very sure of himself.

"I knew you were special." There's an odd sense of pride in Dean's words, along with an equally odd sense of self-satisfaction. "You literally have no sense of self-preservation, have you?"

For a moment Castiel remembers a very similar scene, someone else telling him how little he does to preserve himself, with an equally fond smile, as though that is some kind of achievement.

"I don't think so." Castiel says, and there's something in Dean's eye, a twinkle of sorts that ignites a warm flame in Castiel's belly, lightening him up completely from the inside.

"I was so dumb." Dean reaches out a hand, resting it gently on Castiel's cheek and there are so many emotions written on his face, at once, it's like a dam has broken and Dean is finally letting everything through. "Listen Cas, I'm not good at this, emotions and crap, and I'm pretty much a dick most of the time, but I really want this to work. I know it's selfish to ask this of you, and I tried to stay away, but I just don't want to spend my last days regretting that I let this chance slip."

Castiel can feel the slight tremble in Dean's hand and he settles his own hand on top of it, rubbing his thumb softly over Dean's knuckles.

"And I know you said you want this, but you don't even know me or what I did, but I can't just let you go." There's pain there, a deep hurt that reaches deeper than anything else, and it breaks Castiel's heart just to look at him. And under that is something else, a hint of doubt in Dean's eye, a lingering question as if he can't believe that this moment is true.

"It doesn't matter to me what you did." Castiel says, and he means it. "I don't care about your past, Dean. All I care about is you." And there is so much more he wants to say, but he's unable to frame it into words. He has never been good with words, so he does the only thing he can think of that might convince Dean.

It's a rush, and it's glorious, and it's everything Castiel could ever wish for. Dean tastes just like he remembers him, salt with a hint of leather underneath and something else that Castiel can't place. His fingers card through Dean's hair, pulling him in, until there is no breathing space between them, and he pours all his emotions, all the feelings, all the confusion and hopes he feels into the kiss.

Dean groans, his hands winding around Castiel's hips and he lifts him up and onto his lap as if he weighs nothing. Castiel should be wary of Dean's injuries, but it's so hard to concentrate right now, with Dean's tongue pushing in between the seam of his lips, and then Castiel loses that train of thoughts too, and everything that matters is Dean and only Dean.

Castiel drags his hands through Dean's hair, it's wiry and clearly in need of washing, but to Castiel it feels softer than any fur he's ever touched and all he can do is hold on to it while Dean twirls his tongue around his'. Dean's hands wander over his body, hot, even through the fabric of his clothing and Castiel feels like he's drowning and floating at the same time.

"I want you Cas, I want you so badly, you have no idea." Dean's breath is unbelievably hot against Castiel's skin, sending shivers down his entire body, awakening a deep flame inside of him, a desire for something more carnal, something he never even thought of wanting. "If It's the last thing I do, I want you Cas, every little part of you, until you'll never be able to forget me." It's a desperate plea, a prayer almost, and a promise all the same. The wish of a dying man, and Castiel can't even think of refusing him.

He has never done this before, it feels so strange, yet he instinctively seems to know what to do. His hands have a will of their own as they track a way down Dean's body, exploring every little bit. Dean is hot under his touch, but there are too many areas that are covered in bandages, or oily with the remnants of the liniment, and with every new reminder of injury Castiel's hands grow more hesitant. It goes against his medical isntinct to risk Dean's well-being, no matter how much he wants this. And it doesn't help that every time he drags his hands over Dean's back, his fingers catch on thick scar tissue, the skin thrown up into small hills and ridges, a whole mountain of pain, etched into Dean's back.

"Don't hold back Cas." Dean growls in his ear, and it becomes increasingly harder not to just yank Dean's clothes off and do whatever it is that his body demands. "Cas, please."

"Dean, you're injured."

"I don't care." Dean's hands dig into Cas' hips, pulling him on top of him, rolling them until Dean lies spread under Castiel, supporting almost his entire weight. "Just show me that you're real." His movements are almost frantic as he tries to divest Castiel of his clothes without breaking contact. And it sets of all kinds of alarms in Castiel's head.

And then it hits him, the fleeting moment of doubt in Dean's eyes, the way he had begged him, it all fits. Dean doesn't believe him, he doesn't believe for a second that Castiel will stay, that this will be his only chance. It is indeed, the last desperate wish of a dying man.

"Dean." But he isn't listening, he's too busy with kissing every inch of Castiel's skin he can reach, fingers digging almost painfully into Castiel's hips. "Dean." Castiel manages to get his arms in between them, grabbing on to Dean's wrists and push them down. He tries to be as gentle as possible, mindful of Dean's injured state, and Dean finally allows him to settle them down. He's pliant all of a sudden, as if all the fight has been drained out of him and he stares at the wall with a defeated expression.

"Dean, this is not what I want." Castiel says carefully, watching as Dean tenses slightly only to relax immediately. But it's not a comfortable position, no, Dean looks like he's given up, like he has accepted whatever fate he thinks has been forced on him. "I don't want you like this. I want everything of you. I don't care if it'll hurt me, I don't care if our time is limited, I want to give you everything I have Dean. I'm yours."

It's like he has broken through whatever wall Dean had built around himself, there's another change in Dean's expression, another layer peeled away, and now he can finally see Dean, the real Dean, looking up at him, open and vulnerable, with a hopeful trust in his eye.

"I want you." He mirrors Dean's words back at him, and it sets something loose, a predatory gleam in Dean's eyes and then he's suddenly pressed down into the bed, Dean looming over him and there is a promise in the lines of Dean's smiling mouth. The kiss is like the crashing of waves, wild and unrestrained, a fight and a dance in equal measures and this time Castiel doesn't have any inhibitions when it comes to touching.

He shoves his hands under Dean's shirt, dragging his hands over skin and bandages, again driven by this wild instinct deep inside of him. Dean makes short work of Castiel's own shirt, pulling it off and taking a moment to look down at him, eyes shining with a hungry gaze, and then he dives down, and Castiel is startled by the first moan that escapes him when Dean licks over his nipples. The sensation is new and mind blowing, his hands temporarily forgotten where they still cling to Dean's body, as he is lost in Dean's merciless assault. He bites, he kisses and he licks and soon Castiel can't distinguish what exactly he's doing, it's too much and all the sensation centers between his legs, a pulsing heat where his erection builds up, hungry and impatient.

"Dean." He groans, and then there is a hand on him, rubbing at him through the fabric of his pants, but it's not enough and it's too much at the same time and Castiel has to bite back another moan that would have come out closer to a scream.

"I got you." Dean whispers, hot breath skidding over Castiel's ear where Dean has temporarily relocated, and Castiel isn't sure if he can keep his mind together any longer. Dean tugs on his pants, and then he finally slides them free and down his legs and Castiel is writhing on the bed, desperate for any sort of friction. When Dean's hand closes around his cock it's like he's been hit by lightning, his back arches of the bed and his hands scramble to find something to hold on to, anything, until he dugs them into the folds of Dean's shirt.

Dean's mouth is on his, but he's too lost in the sensation to kiss back properly. Dean growls something, a word, or maybe it's Castiel's name, and then he is swept away by a wave of white and bliss, a buzz in his mind and sparks of electrical fire through his veins. He's vaguely aware of sounds, a deep rough voice that he recognizes as his own, as he pants through his very first orgasm, outside of wet teenage dreams.

When Castiel finally comes down from his high, Dean is lying next to him, trailing gentle kisses down his neck, warm hand resting on his stomach, but all he can really focus on is the brilliant green of Dean's one open eye. He's beautiful, despite the bruises, despite all the hard lines carved into Dean's face, despite the pain that never quite leaves Dean's eyes, he's beautiful – and everything Castiel ever wanted.

"Cas, you are gorgeous." Dean whispers and there is a smile on his lips, lighting up his entire face, erasing all the worry lines at once. Castiel realizes with a startling clarity that this is love. It has been only a day, but he is already in love with Dean.

He reaches out to touch Dean, as he has touched him, but he's stopped by Dean's gentle hand. "No, I just want to lie with you for a bit." There is a warm look in Dean's eyes, not a smile, but something equally as happy. "There's time for that later." It's a promise, but it's more than that. It's Dean's acceptance of Castiel's feelings, of both their wishes to stay together, to give it their all.

And for a while Castiel allows himself to forget the dark future that hangs above their heads.

* * *

"I killed someone."

Dean's voice is solemn, almost too loud in the darkness of the room. The fire had burned down again, the oil lamp standing forgotten on the table. Castiel had tried to get up at one point, but Dean had refused to let him go, and it was hard to argue when there was a mouth latched to his collar bone, sucking and nipping and totally against the idea of moving any time soon. So he had stayed, wrapped in Dean's arms, legs in a tangle and content to an amount that can only be described as faulty.

Castiel had dozed off at some point, but he is pulled back into wakefulness by Dean's sudden confession. He can't say how much time has passed, but he can tell with almost crisp clarity that Dean has spent all of it building up to this moment.

He's wide awake now, trying to make out Dean's features in the dark, but all he can see are shadows and the sharp lines of Dean's jaw. Castiel doesn't say anything, just waits for Dean to break the silence on his own. It's a fragile moment, he can feel it, like one of those filigree glassworks he sometimes sees on the market, when one of the merchants out of the Far East visits their city, one wrong word and it will shatter.

"Well it shouldn't be surprising that you're not surprised." Dean's frown is pretty much audible, even though Castiel imagines seeing some lines on Dean's forehead, but that could have been just a play of shadows. "Okay, never mind. That sounded pretty dumb, even to my ears." He sighs, it's a heavy sound, burdened with a lot of history and Castiel fears for a moment that the moment is gone and Dean won't say what's on his mind.

"Look, this isn't easy for me, but I feel like I need to tell you. Honesty and all that shit, but that's more Sam's deal, and I'm doing a pretty awful job right now, aren't I?" Dean groans and runs a hand through his hair, turning to lie on his back and Castiel just follows the movement until he rests his head on Dean' shoulder, mindful to not put any pressure on the injured ribs.

"It's alright Dean, I'm not going anywhere." Castiel speaks against the curve of Dean's neck; he's close enough to see the slight movement of muscles underneath the skin, or maybe that is yet another play of shadows. Dean swallows, and this time Castiel is sure he hasn't just imagined it, but it seemed to have been the right thing to say, because Dean's hand comes to rest on the small of Castiel's back and he relaxes into his arms.

"Okay, right." Dean's fingers draw idle patterns on the bare of Castiel's back, trailing a line of goose bumps behind, but Castiel ignores the warmth that flushes his skin in favor of focusing on Dean. He puts one hand on the flat expanse of Dean' stomach, feeling the strength underneath, and reminds Dean of his steady presence.

"I grew up in a small town close to the Western border. My mother died when we were very young, Sam, my brother, had barely been born and my father didn't really take that well. We had a small family business, carpentry - small but pretty successful. I had to take care of Sammy while Dad was at work. He wasn't really himself ever since Mom died, and he kept drinking a lot and he screwed up a lot of business. I helped as much as I could, but I was just a kid and people wouldn't take me seriously, and there wasn't much I could do.

"I took over as soon as I was old enough, but Dad had already piled up too much shit and business barely ever picked up again. I wasn't aware that he was in debt until a few days after his death, when two men suddenly appeared on our doorstep and demanded repayment.

Turned out he loaned a lot of money just to keep his booze flowing, while his business went down the drain." There's a deep bitterness in Dean's voice, something born from more than just a slight, something nourished over years, a deep resentment, that makes him sound almost caustic.

"But there was no money, Dad had wasted everything on cheap booze and god knows what else. I tried to negotiate with them, asking for more time, but they weren't interested in anything I had to offer." Dean's fingers still on Castiel's back, and he can feel the tension that builds up in Dean's body. Castiel doesn't have to take an educated guess as to why; being unable to repay one's debts is a crime, and ends with serfdom most of the time. That or people choose to sell themselves to the Stadium as fighters. But there is something more to it, because the serfdom is supposed to be temporary, work in factories or private households, not a sure death sentence like the mines.

"Except for one thing." He scoffs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "As his sons it would fall to both Sam and me to repay Dad's debts, but there was no way I was going to let that happen, so one of them, Alastair, offered me a deal. He would take me as a slave, for life, and spare Sam in return." His hand stills momentarily before he pinches the bridge of his nose. "How could I resist that? I would have done anything for Sammy, still would. Needless to say I said yes."

Dean's hand falls down again, resting only a hair's width away from Cas' hand on his stomach, but they don't touch, not yet at least. "Sam was furious, but there was nothing he could do. I made my decision and Alastair was an influential man, his word was law. I thought it couldn't be so bad, I was used to manual labor and physical violence, as fucked up as that sounds. Turned out I was wrong."

Castiel only hesitates for a second before he puts his hand on Dean's, softly squeezing to show his support. He would have to lie to say he had any idea how to handle this situation. He has never been good with emotions; somehow he either misreads them or simply doesn't notice them, but it's different with Dean. It's like he's tuned in to him, sensitive to every little change in his mood and somehow he always seems to know what to do. He doesn't even have to think about it, it just comes to him naturally and is driven by the ultimate and unquestioned need to support Dean.

It's a stunning revelation, but also one that stays unmentioned in the dark between them. This is Dean's moment and so Castiel refocuses his attention on him.

"Turned out Alastair wasn't interested in my work capabilities, well at least not for that kind of work. He made me do… _things_, forced me to please him, used me in every possible way. He was a sick bastard with a penchant for torture. Got my scars from him, well most of them anyways. Told me I was special, that no one deserved his marks more than I did."

Castiel's hand twitches, a subconscious attempt to reach out and touch the thin white lines on the small of Dean's back, and Dean must notice, but he doesn't give any indication of it. There's a sick feeling welling in Castiel's gut, he wants to rip something apart, preferably that Alastair person, wants to rain heavenly vengeance on him for daring to lay a hand on Dean. Rage like this is unfamiliar, he can't remember ever feeling this intensely before and it would frighten him, but at the same time he knows it's right, because _Dean is his_.

"I kept resisting him, purely out of spite, and I knew that spurred him on only more, but I couldn't _not_ do it, I couldn't give in to that bastard, I just couldn't. I could barely hold on to myself as it was, if I'd ever given that bastard the satisfaction of giving in, I would have been broken in no time." The anger and bitterness is gone from his voice now, and the emotion it's replaced with, knocks all the rage right out of Castiel. His voice is breaking, and Castiel can feel moisture dripping down from Dean's cheek, but he keeps going, speaks through the tears and it's all Castiel can do to keep his own back.

"I kept thinking of Sammy and how I was doing this all for him, it kept me going but there were days when I just wanted it all to end. And Alastair kept playing these sick mind games, dragging in other slaves, or sometimes local girls, mostly daughters of whores, because no one would miss them. He said if I could impress him he would let me go. I refused at first, I wouldn't torture someone else just to save my own skin, I tried so hard to resist him, but he always thought of something special afterwards, to punish me."

Dean chokes on a sob and Castiel instinctively tightens his grip on Dean's hand, pressing his body even closer, just to give as much comfort as possible. "The day I first picked up the knife he was so proud, kept saying I was a natural, I would come far, but he wasn't impressed. Next time I tried even harder, but no matter what I did, he would always say he wasn't impressed. And then I realized that I was all just a game, he had no intention of ever letting me go, not when he could enjoy watching me turn into a monster."

He almost spits out the last words, tears still streaming, but his voice is no overcome with self-loathing, and Castiel finds himself in awe at the insane amount of raw emotion that Dean can display in such a short amount of time. He's unrefined, like a raw diamond, all rough edges and hidden beauty. It makes Castiel's heart fill with emotion, with longing and an endless pool of warmth and he just wants to embrace Dean, take him into his arms and just cancel out the harsh world around them.

"I was so close to giving up and just end everything, I didn't want to kill myself, but I wanted it to end so badly, that I was actually considering it. I refused to participate in his games; he could torture me as much as he wanted, as long as I didn't have to rip into another one. But then he brought in Sam, claiming I hadn't been satisfactory, and that Sam needed to do his part of the compensation, and that he would clear both our debts if I tortured him in all the ways he taught me.

"It's ridiculous really, it was so clear all of a sudden. I couldn't lay a hand on Sammy, but I had a knife in my hand, so I stuck it in the only reasonable place. Alastair's throat. 'Course we kind of had a problem after that, he had a lot of guards and influence and such. There was no way we would both get out alive, but so far his guards didn't even know Sam was there. Alastair liked to keep his little side entertainment a secret, it would ruin his reputation, so I played a little decoy while Sam got away, let them catch me red handed, so they wouldn't waste time on searching for the culprit and stumbled over Sam in the end.

"I thought they would execute me on the spot, but then they discovered Alastair's little playground, and came to the conclusion I've done the city a favor, but I was a slave and killing your master is a no go so they sent me to the mines, as good of a death sentence as any. Gave me a good lashing before that though. But I had no intention of staying, so I broke out at the first chance, turned out they weren't really prepared for someone in good physical shape, but they caught me anyway and yeah, you know the rest of the story."

Dean sounds tired now, more than anything else, and even though they haven't done anything more exerting than lying around, Castiel can feel a bone-deep exhaustion, like he's been up for days without a minute of rest. But it's nothing, nothing compared to the slack he can feel in Dean's body, like he's just lost all of his strength to the telling of one little tale. One little tale that changed not only Dean's life but also Castiel's.

He's sure of it now, more than ever. Dean is everything he wants, everything he needs and he'd rather spend what little time they have together, even though it will inevitably break his heart, than doing nothing and regret it for the rest of his live. And he wants to give it his everything, he wants to give Dean his soul, his heart, even if he gets nothing in returns, it will be enough.

It has to be enough, Dean has lost enough already, Castiel won't take anything else from him.

"Please Cas, just say something. Your silence isn't really reassuring, you know?" There's an almost playful tone to his voice, but it sounds forced, fickle to Castiel's ears, like he's holding up a pretense, and the way his voice trembles, just slightly around the edges, tells him more than anything how close Dean is to break apart.

Castiel is terrible with expressing himself, has always been; used to be the center of many jokes from his comrades (most of said jokes he failed to understand); the most basic forms of human interactions often fail him, but with Dean it seems so easy sometimes. Because with Dean it's enough to say his name, put every little thing he feels into that one word, and somehow Dean always seems to understand exactly what he's saying.

Dean relaxes minutely under his hands, letting go of part of the tension that had built up during the story, and Castiel can almost feel the pressure ease out of the room. "Now you know why you shouldn't trust me, I killed a man in cold blood." But there's no force behind his words, like he doesn't really believe it himself anymore, that there could be even a hint of a chance that Castiel hasn't fallen for him completely.

"You killed to protect your brother." Castiel says, not waiting for Dean to get anything in, before he continues, "I have been to war Dean. I know a lot about taking lives." And losing lives. "Sometimes circumstances don't leave you a choice, and you did the right thing. Family is important." And no one should know that better than Castiel, who hasn't talked to his family in years, whose family has kicked him out after his disgrace, whose family wants nothing more to do with him, whose own brother has told him, right into his face, that he was ashamed of being related to him.

It had taken Castiel losing his family to finally understand how very important they were to him.

But at least Dean hadn't made that mistake.

"It really is that easy, isn't it? I mean, I knew I had no other choice, and Alastair was an asshole, but that doesn't change that I'm a killer. I didn't even hesitate, I just stabbed him. And it was so fucking easy, killing someone doesn't have the right to feel easy. And all I could think of was that now I would never have to torture someone again, I didn't even think of Sammy, I was just so relieved that it was over."

"As you had every right to be."

Dean isn't crying anymore, hadn't been for a while, but only now Castiel finds the courage to lift his hand and wipe away the tears. "I've been in a war." He repeats, not so sure himself where he's going with it. "There is no black and white in war, as much as people want to make you believe there is. I got into trouble more than once because I treated enemy soldiers. And that in itself already tells you a lot.

"I was a member of the guild of healers, sworn to neutrality amidst all conflict." Even now, after all these years, the words still sound as mocking on his ears as they did back then, when he threw them back at Naomi, when they were all he had between himself and the deep gaping hole that threatened to swallow him. But no matter how corrupt the guild was, no matter how questionable their intents, it had been his home for half of his life, and parting had been painful, and no words, no truth had changed that.

"I believed in that. I became a healer because I wanted to help people and their affiliations didn't matter to me. But our leaders were corrupt, had been for a long time, so when the war came they allied with the Master, denying their support to the other side, on the ground of some century old law that holds no more meaning."

It is an old story really. Not the first war the Master has fought and certainly not the last. There is not a single generation among their people that hasn't lived through a war, either to conquer new lands, or defend the land the Master has claimed, it's an endless vicious cycle, and as much as he wished he could, there had been nothing a single human being could have changed.

"I disagreed and I tried to help as many people as possible, regardless of the 'side' they were on. It was the right thing to do, I knew it, but my superiors thought otherwise. I was punished for disobedience more than once, and Naomi, the guild leader, threatened to expel me from the guild, but I couldn't stop, not when I knew that I was doing the right thing.

"Still, I would have been kicked out, hadn't it been for Balthazar. He convinced Naomi to let mecontinue what I was doing, arguing that I was one of the best among them, and that I saved as many of our people as I did theirs." Castiel pauses, thinking back on that moment, when Naomi had resentfully agreed to it, and the contemptuous looks he gathered from many of his colleagues after that day. The gratefulness he had felt for Balthazar, while at the same time there had been an underlying seething anger, anger about the guild members that considered him in the wrong for doing the right thing, anger at the Master and his pointless war, anger even at Balthazar who had conformed so neatly to the situation, deviating only for his sake.

And then he had gotten his best friend killed, because he had wanted to save a girl whom he didn't know, a girl who wore no colors, just a stranger who had gotten herself between two armies. "I didn't think what I did was wrong, I still don't think so, even though it got my best friend killed. And that's just it, it's easy to believe that right or wrong doesn't matter, because in the end we're just doomed anyway, but I for one don't believe that. I believe that there is a right and a wrong as opposed to black and white in this world, and there is not a single doubt in my mind that you did the right thing."

Dean doesn't say anything for a long while, and Castiel kind of understands what Dean must have felt at his own silence earlier, but he doesn't press him, because this wasn't supposed to be confession time for Castiel and Dean has much to think about.

And when he finally speaks, Castiel can hear the warmth and gratitude, knowing with undeniable certainty that Dean understands. "Thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Just a quick heads up that next week won't be an update, because I'll be busy with Christmas and stuff. But the week after updates will be back on schedule. Happy holidays ;)

* * *

No matter how often he looks at Dean's bruises, Castiel can't shake the dark feeling that builds up in his gut. It's bitterness and regret mixed with anger and frustration, because he wasn't there to protect Dean and because he can't lie a hand on the men who did this. Castiel doesn't even understand why he's feeling like this. There's nothing he can do to change that Dean is marked. He can't undo the past, Alastair is dead and considering that Dean will be dead too soon, revenge is ultimately inconsequently.

So Castiel focuses on the good things, every little change of color in Dean's bruises that signals another step of healing, the way his ribs seem to heal abnormally fast and how he can move much easier already. He focuses on Dean's smile, the smooth skin of his face after Castiel brought him his shaving kit, the way his other eye peeks from under the still swollen lid, still bruised but with the same entrancing green.

They're lying in bed again, Dean has his arms wrapped around Castiel, hands splayed on his stomach, nose buried in the hairs on the back of his neck. Castiel has been reading to him, out of one of the few books he calls his own. The written word is a luxury and Dean had been quite impressed when he learned that Castiel could read. Most of his books are about medicine, but he has a few that are simply for entertainment. His favorite novels, old and worn but handled with care.

Castiel has tried to get up a few times to check on Rachel, see if he can help with anything, feeling the need to be at least temporarily present, but Dean has thwarted all of his attempts with increasingly unfair tactics. The attendees have left to celebrate, Castiel doesn't need their help and they deserve a bit of free time.

"She doesn't need you to babysit her." Dean says, nuzzling his nose behind Castiel's ear, nipping at the skin until he gives in, for the fourth time since they have lain down. It's late afternoon, Castiel has spent almost the whole day with Dean, neglecting what little duties he has during the Mesmeralias. He could have gone out watching the parades, the flower strewn streets, the costumes, the masks, the celebrations; there is much to see. Castiel wishes he could show all those things to Dean. But he can't, and he has no will to see the festivities on his own. It gets old after too many years of pretended frivolity, he can't forget that as much as the Mesmeralias celebrate life, at the end of it is always death.

It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, so he stays holed in with Dean, reading until his voice gets hoarse and Dean decides that 'he sounds far too sexy for his own good' and pulls the book out of his hands.

"I will have to leave eventually." Castiel says quietly after a moment of silence, only interrupted by Dean's occasional hum when he discovers another spot on Castiel's skin he likes. Dean tenses, almost imperceptibly, but the tickle of breath on Castiel's neck stops for a moment, before he exhales again, slowly.

"I know. I know you'll come back, but…" He doesn't finish, but Castiel doesn't need him to. He wants to spend as much time as possible with Castiel, because they're on a deadline, and every minute spent apart is wasted. Castiel relaxes back into Dean's embrace, now that he's thought of it; he can't even find the will to leave anymore. He wants to wrap himself around Dean, hold him as tight as possible and never let go again. He wants to breathe him in, inhale him until he can carry him wrapped around his heart, pulsing under his skin, never to be separated again.

Dean hasn't done more than touching him superficially for a while. He's not showing it, but his bruised rib must still bother him. Castiel wouldn't want him to agitate his injuries more than necessary anyway.

But he can feel it, there's a constant tingle underneath his skin, the urge to touch, to consume, but he ignores it for now, in favor of just soaking up this moment.

"Maybe, I'll just stay here for a while longer then." Castiel murmurs into the lazy darkness of the room. Somehow it's always dark when they're like this, only embers casting glow-y shadows on the wall, covering everything with the safety of dreams, like if they could just stay like this forever, everything will be fine.

"Good plan." Dean's voice is a soft tremble of sound against his neck, and Castiel can feel the curve of his lips against his skin as he smiles. He pulls Castiel closer against his chest. "I think I'll have to chain you, if you suggest leaving one more time."

Castiel chuckles quietly, lacing his fingers through Dean's. "You would really do that?"

"Mhh. If you make me." Dean reaches out with one hand behind him and hooks one finger under the chain links between one of the pair of handcuffs still connected to the wall.

"You must really like me."

Dean wiggles his finger and the cuffs clink softly against each other. There's a lower sounding clack when the embedded stone meets the metal, but the sound gets lost in Dean's next words. "You have no idea." That gives Castiel pause, and he cranes his neck to look up at Dean.

"Actually, I think I have quite a good idea." Castiel smiles softly, watching the light play on Dean's face. The swelling around his eye has subsided, only the skin is still blotchy with yellow and green. The cut above his eyebrow has healed cleanly so far, a few more days and Castiel can remove the sutures.

Dean's face seems to soften when he looks at Castiel. "Is that so?"

Castiel blinks lazily, Dean's warmth is lulling him into a drowsy state of contentment, not yet sleep, but close. "Yeah." There's another metal clank when the cuffs fall back against the wall after Dean has released them.

Dean leans forward to press a kiss on Castiel's lips, sweet and chaste, and it only serves to suck Castiel in deeper into the vortex that is his love for Dean. It's easy to admit now, he's in love, and at least for this moment, he is happy. Maybe it's premature and maybe his heart will shatter in a million pieces, but right now, it doesn't matter.

"Tell me." Dean's voice is only a purr, soft and commanding and Castiel feels the all-too-familiar heat stirring in his gut, something he's come to connect irreversibly with Dean.

"Well, if you like me only half as much as I like you, then you like me very much."

Dean hums, but there is electricity in the air now, like static building up between their bodies. "Half as much as you like me, huh?" Dean's voice has dropped, a low grumble that ignites a fire under Castiel's skin, a burning want, all centered on Dean. "I wonder just how much that is." Castiel shuffles a bit in the confined space between Dean and the edge of the bed to turn around and face him. Dean isn't wearing anything else but a pair of pants, that he's borrowed from Castiel, and his skin is warm and tempting.

"Much." Castiel grins lazily, tracing a finger over the exposed part of Dean's chest. "Very much." He's in an unusual mood, wanting to tease Dean for some inexplicable reason. He gets a smile as a reward, wide and bright eyed, and it makes Castiel's heart flutter in his chest.

"Maybe I should tie you up after all and make you tell me, you little tease." Dean's growl summons the memories of the day before, the wet heat of Dean's mouth on his cock and Castiel feels more than a little hot and bothered right now.

"Why are you so insistent on tying me up?" Castiel asks, moving closer to get his mouth on Dean's skin, sucking, kissing; devouring the taste that clings to Dean, unique and heady, like a drug he can't get enough of.

"Because I don't want you to leave." The statement is sober, with an almost somber tone, and Castiel stills. He's not talking about Castiel leaving the room to do his duty; he's talking about Castiel leaving Dean because-

There's not a single reason in the world that Castiel can think of that would make him leave Dean, but Dean doesn't know that. Dean has only eleven more days to live, and Castiel wonders for a moment if Dean only clings on to him, because he's the only one there, if he'd not much rather have someone else than Castiel with his lack of experience and a burdened past.

A sour feeling builds in his stomach at that thought, and once he's gone on that tangent, he can't seem to stop. He tries to tell himself that what Dean told him yesterday must have had some meaning, but what if he just wanted someone to confess to? Die with a clean conscience, leave with no regrets and a good fuck to send him off?

He knows that he's thinking himself into a down spiral, each argument just treads loose another set of stones, tumbling down on the little tent of comfort he's built up around him. There's a bitter taste in the back of his throat, his skin feels cold and clammy from sweat and there's a distinct nausea building up.

Dean's arms tighten around him, worry forming on his face as he waits for Castiel's reply. "Cas?"His voice sounds small all of a sudden, a hollow noise in the too empty room. It's like he's lost now, without Castiel, and somehow that's like a punch in the gut for him. There's no reason, no logical reason whatsoever, for Dean to 'waste' his last days with someone he doesn't truly like, there's no reason for him to lie, honestly, why did he even think that he would? It's so ridiculous that Castiel almost laughs.

But maybe doubt is something normal under these circumstances and - not to forget - being in love for the first time.

"Do you really like me?" He asks instead, not because he's doubting, but because he wants to hear it, wants to hear Dean telling him again, and again, until the room is filled with nothing but words. He puts a hand on Dean's cheek, fingers just shy of the healing bruise and he looks into those eyes that he can't possibly find the right words to describe.

Dean looks at him for a moment, just looks at him, expression unreadable. Whatever it is that he's seeing on Castiel's face seems to be what he had been looking for though, because he smiles and kisses him, languid and deep, an echo of their earlier passion, but still chaste. There's much in that kiss, so many things Dean just says with his lips, with the way his fingers tighten their grip on him, with the brightness in his eyes when he pulls back again, in the slant of his mouth when he just keeps that smile.

How could he have ever doubted that? No matter how little they know each other, no matter how short the time they spent with each other, there is no question about how deeply Dean feels for Castiel.

And there is no question that Castiel loves Dean with all his heart.

* * *

Dean finally lets Castiel out of his arms when both their hunger for sustenance outgrows the hunger for closeness, and Castiel leaves with the promise to be back as soon as possible with food and more water. They've spent the last few hours with talking and touching, the slants of their bodies slotted together, lips almost always in direct proximity to each other, Castiel living as much on Dean's breath as Dean on Castiel's. The remaining embers gave out sometime through it, but neither of them had cared at that point. They don't need to see to reaffirm each other's company.

The halls outside Dean's room are dark, it's late evening and there's no need to light the tallow lamps if it's just the three of them. Rachel and Castiel are the only two who permanently stay here, Castiel because he has no other place to go and Rachel because she refuses to leave him alone. It's cold outside of the bed and the fire-warmed room. The warmth from the sun outside doesn't reach this deep down into the bowels of the Stadium. There's no need for the sun here, where only the sick and the dying reside.

The quarters where the servants and workers sleep are just one level above, and underneath are the cells for the prisoners, for those who come here to be executed. Dean would be there, if his injuries wouldn't require special care, and if the Master wouldn't have decided that he wants Dean's death to be an example to his people. And as sick as that makes Castiel feel, he's also grateful that he gets to spend this time with Dean, even if it's just a little.

The kitchen is empty when he arrives. It's kind of a stretch to call it a kitchen, it's more of a storage room with a small fireplace. They get food and provisions from the city, most of which ends up in the upper level kitchen that's used to provide for both staff and the Fighters, but Rachel makes sure that their little medical unit gets their fare share of rations, (even though fair in no way translates to enough to properly sustain everyone). She's also the one in charge of assigning cooking and cleaning duties to their attendees, and basically the whole thing would long have collapsed around Castiel, had it not been for Rachel's firm hand and guidance.

Rachel is the saving grace of this place, Castiel is a good doctor for sure, but he can't deal well with people. There's no doubt in Castiel's mind that the Overseer, who is in charge of the Stadium in the Master's name, would love to fire him, weren't it for the fact that the Master himself hired him. How Rachel always manages to coax him into giving them what they need is beyond Castiel. The Overseer is a greedy man, he's only interested in the profit his men can bring him, and in his eyes Castiel's only function is to cost him money, but the Master's word is law and so he has to tolerate him.

It's no surprise that the supplies in the kitchen are sparse, the next delivery is scheduled tomorrow and despite Rachel's convincing abilities, they always run low at the end of the week. (It's their luck that cloth for bandages is so cheap and that Castiel can collect most of the herbs he needs himself.) What little else they have is mostly improvised or remnants of Castiel's time in the guild, like his sewing kit. And thankfully, sometimes the sponsors offer them generous monetary donations when Castiel managed to save their favorite, but those usually go into purchasing all the medical equipment the Overseer fails to supply. And more often than not, fancy treatment for the donator's favorite.

There's bread and some cheese, and he remembers seeing some old apples there when he was here last, but the apples are gone now and the bread is hard like a rock. Sometimes he wonders how many men he lost because of bad food. The cheese is hard too, but at least it's mold-free, not like that one time when they had to fast for two days, because all they had left was cheese and it was moldy. Not the good kind.

It didn't used to be so bad, the old Overseer was quite generous; he was the one allowing Castiel his oil lamp and a few other luxuries, he now has to fight to protect. But they've gotten a new one last year, and his only interest is money, and ever since then the death rate has gone up in his chambers.

They've rationed, started to use triage and put a lock on the medical closet, but rations are running thin, and now he has wasted a lot on Dean, but he refuses to use the word waste in his mind, because it was worth it. And the liniments were made from herbs he picked himself, so at least he can personally restock. He should probably go soon, before the culmination and he'll be flooded with patients again.

It's late, Rachel must have already eaten, so Castiel can take the bread and cheese without feeling too much guilt that he's taking their last supplies. And Dean hasn't really eaten much so far besides the herbal brew Castiel made him, a few crumbs of bread and one lonely apple Rachel had procured for Castiel yesterday, and if he has to stick back a bit to get Dean his first full meal in days, then so be it. It's the least he can do to make up for neglecting Dean's needs like that.

He takes the plate back to Dean's room, wondering what his old comrades would say if they saw him like that. With nothing more than a measly piece of bread and some old cheese, his meal for the day. How far he's fallen. All the promise he had had, all the skill and experience Naomi had thrown in his face, the knowledge he had wasted by defying the guild, in Naomi's eyes the biggest crime he committed. She cared about losing Balthazar, not because he was important, but because he was a member, a head filled with knowledge and skill she could use. And Castiel had wasted it, as he had wasted his own, because he had screwed up and disgraced them.

He used to think life was complicated. But in fact it is really simple. There are rules, and when you break one, you get punished. That was Naomi's life philosophy. Rules are there to make life simple, except when it's not. He used to think life was complicated when he went to safe people fighting in a war without a cause. But that was simple, Naomi's order was simple. And then he left to care for people who died a causeless death. And that was simple too.

Because death is always simple.

And then came Dean. And with that all the simplicity is gone.

Dean smiles when Castiel enters the room, it's just a soft tilt of lips, but it's enough to make all the dark thoughts fall away from Castiel. Life seems simple again, there's just Dean and nothing matters besides Dean. It doesn't matter that the bread is so hard that Dean winces when he takes his first bite, it doesn't matter that the cheese lacks salt and tastes like nothing, it doesn't matter that Castiel will go to bed hungry, because Dean needs the sustenance more and it doesn't matter that he has to lie with a smile that he just ate an apple on the way here. It doesn't matter, because in this moment he's here with Dean, and no one can take that away.

"If I didn't know it better I would think you're trying to poison me." Dean jokes after he's managed to chew through the last part of the bread. He grimaces at the taste, but doesn't complain further and moves on to finish the last bit of cheese. Castiel wishes he could get him some fresh fruit, grapes from the local wine plantations, some pears or maybe cherries from the traders that come in from the South. Outside, the streets are lined with stalls and tables, food from all around the world and it's not for the first time that Castiel thinks he should just go and restock himself.

There's an image in his head, of Dean spread out on the bed, opening his mouth obediently for Castiel to feed him grapes. He can feel the touch of Dean's lips on his skin when he pushes the grape in, can see the teasing look in his eyes when he trails his tongue over Castiel's fingers, long after he's swallowed down the grape. But it feels strangely inappropriate at the moment so Castiel shakes it from his mind.

"Seriously, is this all you guys get to eat?"

Castiel shrugs, he's long over the point in time where he could get angry at the circumstances of his life. At least that's what he thinks he is, but when he sees the indignation on Dean's face he's not so sure anymore. He wasn't wrong. He wasn't wrong when he tried to save the girl's life, and no matter how much Naomi thought he needed to be punished, he doesn't deserve this, does he? He can't tell anymore. It had been right for so long that he isn't sure if he even has the right to feel that it's wrong. (It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong. It has to be. But the fault doesn't lie with him; it lies with the system that forces young men to fight simply for entertainment. Favor bought with blood.

"It's enough." He says, because it's the only thing he can say. Even though it's not the truth. Dean doesn't reply anything, at least not with words, but he's giving him a look, eyebrows pulled up, mouth slanted in that way that forms an unspoken question.

The plate is empty, only crumbs left, and so is their pantry. Castiel wonders what they'll get tomorrow, how much it will be and how long it will last. They used to get a feast of their own during the Mesmeralias, but not anymore. Now, they'll get even less than usual, because they don't have any Fighters in their chambers to care for, and for the Overseer that's as good as an excuse as any. But it's not that bad, not yet. Castiel still has a bit of money left, saved up for bad times, and if worse comes to worst he can go out and buy them food.

But Dean doesn't have to know all that, because he'll be dead at the end of the festivities. There's no need to burden him with further worries, so Castiel just smiles and takes the plate out of Dean's hand to put it on the table.

Dean watches him from his place on the bed with a fond expression. It makes Castiel's heart bleed to see it, because it's so promising, and he wants nothing more than to keep it there forever. There's a stinging sensation in his eyes, but he won't cry, not now, not as long as Dean is still here with him. He won't bitter their time together by crying.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks, and Castiel sighs, because even they have known each other for only a few days, it's already impossible to hide anything from him.

Castiel sits down on the bed and lets Dean pull him down with him. "Nothing." He says softly, "I'm fine." And because they both know that it's a lie, and because both know that there is nothing that they can do about it, Dean accepts it.

"Okay."

They just lie like that for a while, at some point Dean pulls the blanket up over both of them and Castiel allows him to tug him in.

"Are you in pain?" Castiel asks after a while. It's so easy to forget that Dean is injured, and Castiel doesn't like to think about why Dean is so proficient in putting on a brave face.

"No, I'm fine." Dean's face is illuminated by the light of the rekindled fire, it makes the bruise on his cheek almost disappear, but the cut on his forehead stands out even sharper. Firewood is another thing that's constantly sparse, but Castiel never lights the fire in his own chambers, so he could justify using another log in Dean's room. It's always so simple to bend the rules when it comes to Dean.

Especially his own rules.

"I could make you another tea." Castiel offers, even though he doesn't really feel inclined to leave the warmth of Dean's arms.

"I'm fine, really." Dean smiles, and there's that fondness again and Castiel's whole body feels warm and tingly. "But you know what? I could use something else?" Dean's hand is hot against the small of his back, even through the fabric of his shirt. It's that gesture, more than his words, that shows Castiel what he's referring to.

"I'm not sure about that. As your doctor I would have to perform a thorough examination of your condition first." Castiel says flatly, and for a moment there is confusion on Dean's face, before his face lights up into a grin.

"Examination, huh? Do I have to get naked for that?"

Castiel gives him an appraising glance, letting his eyes trail over the body parts he can see. Dean sucks in a breath as his cheeks flush under Castiel's scrutiny. "It would certainly help." Castiel finally says and Dena's tongue flicks out to wet his lips, an unconscious gesture for sure, but nonetheless alluring. Not that Dean needs to do much to get Castiel hot under the collar.

Dean smirks and trails a finger down Castiel's chest. There's a promising glint in his eyes that sends a rush of heat through Castiel's body. The blanket is way too hot all of a sudden, and he can't get it off fast enough.

He doesn't think, he just knows he has to get Dean naked now, has to touch and taste, every spot on his body, until his shape is etched irremovably into his memory. Dean's breathing is erratic already and he fumbles just as badly as Castiel does, to rid them both of their clothes, and then Dean seriously challenges his restraint by leaning in and whispering against his ear.

"I think there's something wrong with me doc. I feel so hot and I'm sweating, and my body does this weird thing…" He drags Castiel's hand down to push against his erection, moaning as he makes contact and Castiel has a short moment to panic, because this is still so new, but then he sees the expression on Dean's face, the bliss and the absolute trust, and really, how could he ever screw this up?

Dean is perfect, beautiful, and he's his.

It's a rush, no time for elegance, just heated flesh against flesh, wet breath on skin and the fire-lit air filled with their tumbling voices. And when he comes, it's like sparks that fire off behind his eyes, his vision blurring into white light and for a moment the whole world seems to be made of Dean and only Dean, and the sugar sweet song of his voice as he cries out in pleasure. Dean comes only moments later, gripping on to Castiel's arm, all muscles clenching and then relaxing at once, and his seed mingles with Castiel's, inextricably linked, like their lives that he'll never be able to separate again.

He feels weak afterwards, no strength left, but it's nothing like the exhaustion he knows from the battle field, or the bone deep tiredness he feels after he's lost another patient to death. He feels sated, and deeply contented, like he's finally found the answer to the puzzle of his life. Like the last piece has finally been found, and he's allowed to take his rest.

"So in other news, it appears I have corrupted you." Dean's voice is breathless, filled with the same content that Castiel feels.

"I don't feel corrupted."

Dean laughs, a soft sound, fluttering through the air and settling like a blanket over them. Castiel is loath to get up, but the mess on their stomachs won't go away on its own, and he really doesn't want to wake up with dried cum on his belly. Even if it's Dean's. He can feel Dean's eyes on him when he gets up to find an unused piece of cloth that he can dedicate to remove their semen from now on. Thankfully there's still water in the bucket, even if it's cold.

"No." Dean says after Castiel has long climbed back into bed with him, arms wrapped around each other, fire burned down to ember again. "You're not corrupted. You're pure and bright. You're an angel."

Castiel doesn't know what to say. He would point out that his history doesn't invite such a judgment, but Dean is aware of that. And then Dean's head drops, his mouth hangs slightly open and Castiel realizes that he's falling asleep.

The last thing Dean says is nothing more than a whisper, mumbled from the depth of sleep.

"My angel."


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel wakes up with the distinct sensation that something is wrong. He's used to waking up to a dark room, they don't have windows down here and it's too expensive to keep a light source on the whole night. It had taken a while until Castiel's circadian cycle had adjusted, but now his inner clock works well enough with perpetual darkness.

So it isn't the darkness that tipped him off. Neither is it the unfamiliar bed or room he woke up in. And it is certainly not the warm body pressed against him from behind, arms encircling him and the soft and steady breath on his neck. It feels nice, better than he could have ever imagined, to wake up in Dean's arms, warm and loved. The sensation is bone-deep, satisfaction suffusing him until he fels like glowing with it.

But cordial feelings aside, Castiel can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Dean is still asleep, breath ghosting over Castiel's neck in a steady rhythm, arms loose but firm enough in their position around Castiel to keep him in place. He tries to look around without disturbing Dean, but it's still too dark to see much else besides shadows and vague outlines. The embers have burned out over the night; the fireplace is dark and filled with cold ash.

The room is silent, but there is something in the air that isn't right and it takes Castiel a few moments to realize just what it is. There's a hint of a draft in the room, something that only happens when the door is open.

He cranes his head around and there it is, a thin strip of slightly brighter darkness around the spot where the door is. Someone must have opened it during the night and not close it afterwards, but Castiel has the distinct suspicion that the sound of the door opening was what had woken him.

Dean grumbles something and turns slightly, arm sliding off of Castiel, his nose pressing against Castiel's back, as he falls back into deep sleep. Castiel carefully extracts himself from Dean, the cool air of the room greeting him with a shiver as he steps on the cold stone floor. Without the fire the temperature quickly loses to the cold stone walls. The stones lining the fireplace used to be imbued with a special magic that stored the heat and slowly emitted it to the room, long after the fire burned out, but it's drained now - refilling way too expensive. Castiel slips on his clothes that still lie around on the floor. It's not that much of an improvement, the clothes have soaked up the cold from the stone floor, but it's better than nothing.

Castiel leans over Dean, hand resting in his hair while he presses a soft kiss to his temple. He adjusts the blanket so that Dean won't get cold, before he turns around to go inquire who came to disturb them. He's pretty sure it had been Rachel, there is no one else her after all, but there must have been a reason why she left without disturbing them.

Rachel awaits him in the common room, a cup of steaming hot tea in hands and another one on the table. (The tea is a courtesy of Castiel's herb supply, and their main food source when food supplies are sparse.) It's a stretch to call it a common room, it's more like an unused supply closet with a few chairs stuffed in it along with an old crooked table.

Rachel greets him with a nod as he sits down opposite of her. He takes a sip from the tea and allows himself to relax for a moment before he leans back into the uncomfortable chair and faces his subordinate.

"Castiel I'm worried." She sets down her cup to look at him, the worry clearly written on her face. "You're getting too close to that…" She grimaces, and it's apparent that her opinion of Dean isn't exactly high. "He's a criminal, you shouldn't forget that." Others might have danced around the subject, but Rachel has always been direct like that. It's one of the reasons Castiel likes her.

He studies her for a moment, takes in the shadows under her eyes from too much worry and too little sleep. Rachel doesn't like idling, even if there is nothing to do, she'll find something to keep her hands busy. They're alike in that matter, Castiel usually has to be coaxed into taking a break by Rachel and he has done the same for her more often than not. They're both like that, thinking of someone else's wellbeing before their own. She's frowning now though, a straight line between her eyes and a distinct unhappy tilt to her mouth. She has his best interest in mind, but right now she needs to understand that Dean is in Castiel's best interest.

"Is that why you came to Dean's chamber earlier?" He keeps his voice calm, polite, but it's a clear signal that his and Dean's relationship is not open for discussion. Rachel won't like it but she will respect it. And whatever she might think of their relationship, he trusts her implicitly not to do anything that would harm him.

Rachel stares at him for a moment, brows creased into a frown and Castiel half expects her to object but she just bows her head slightly, acknowledging his unwillingness to discuss the matter. Sometime she thinks that Rachel is far more a soldier than he ever was.

"No, I actually came in search for you to discuss the upcoming supply delivery." She takes another sip of her tea before she pulls out a wrinkled sheet of paper from somewhere out of her clothes. "I put together a list of requests, and I'd like you to go through it and add whatever you think is necessary. I have not much hope though. It doesn't hurt to try though, as the saying goes." She shrugs dismissively, but Castiel knows that it's a sore spot for her.

She hands the paper off to Castiel and pulls out another one, equally wrinkled. "Here's the list of what has been used the past week, as usual." She hands him the second paper and leans back in her chair, waiting for Castiel to finish reading. Rachel has been cataloguing their expenses for years now, dutifully and precise, up to the exact number of apples that had been consumed. But the request list is new, and as she said, there's not much hope, but they can always try.

"We have a shortage of firewood and we also need to stock up on beddings and blankets for the patients. The straw needs to be exchanged in most beds and at least two beds are suffering from woodworms. We have only one bag of flour left and I had to discard a whole sack of potatoes due to mold a few days ago, we should definitely look into that. Mold in the pantry would be fatal. I've also requested new clothes for the winter, but I fear we'll have to pay for staff equipment out of our own pocket."

She sighs heavily and rubs a hand over her eyes. Castiel suddenly wonders if she has even slept that night. He finishes with the first list and takes the second to read through later. "We're low on some medical liniments and salves, but I'm planning on making new ones soon. But I need to collect Aconite and Agrimony soon, I've used up most of what I have in stock." Castiel taps his finger against the table, running through his mental inventory of the herbarium. "And I used up all my Comfrey supplies on Dean."

"You should go out to the market. There are a lot of merchants with exotic goods during the Mesmeralias." Rachel suggests and takes back the request list. "The Andrographis you bought last time was very effective. Besides, prices are reasonable this time of the year."

"I doubt we can still afford reasonable." Castiel points out with a sigh. Sure, he had made a good price back then, but back then he didn't have to worry that he might need the money he just spent for exotic herbs for food. "I doubt I will get any herbs from the market this year. We will have to do with what Mother Nature gives us."

"Hopefully the festival guests won't trample everything in their fervor." Rachel comments dryly after emptying the last of her cup. "The supplies should be delivered shortly before noon, I'll meet you in front." Rachel folds the paper and stuffs it back into one of the many pockets of her coat. She takes her empty cup and stands up, looking down at him for a moment with an expression he can't quite name. "Be careful." She says softly before turning around and walking out through the door. He doesn't have to try long to guess what she's referring to. The question however is, did she warn him about Dean or about what it might do to him when he loses him.

And maybe there is not so much of a difference between the two.

* * *

Dean is awake when Castiel returns to their room. He's sitting on the bed with his back to the wall, blanket draped over his legs. The fire is burning again and Castiel is torn between chastising him for possibly upsetting his injuries or for thanking him for re-warming the room. He settles for glaring (ineffectively) at the fire and smiling at Dean.

"Where have you been?" Dean asks and lifts the blanket up to invite him in. It' still cold in the room, the fire didn't have the time yet to warm up the air. Castiel quickly inspects the remaining supply of firewood, before he climbs on the bed to sit next to Dean. It's not really a surprise that the firewood is nearly gone, only one log and a few measly twigs remain. There's supposed to be more in their supply closet, but from what he has gathered from Rachel's list that will most likely be empty too.

He didn't intend to let Dean know about his worries, but he must have picked up on something because he frowns and asks: "Something wrong?"

And Castiel answers in the affirmative, even though he didn't intend to do so, but it just seems natural to confide in Dean. If he can trust anyone, it's got to be him, doesn't it?

Dean looks at him with a raised eyebrow and Castiel feels the faint heat of a blush rise on his cheeks when he realizes that he's supposed to elaborate on that and that he's effectively been staring at Dean for five seconds straight without even realizing it. He can't say the view is not inviting though.

"We're suffering from a shortage of supplies due to administrational changes." Castiel explains, wondering into how many details he should go, and the thought is more painful than expected, because he can't help but think that Dean will be dead in ten days and that it doesn't matter what or what not he tells him. Because it will be inconsequential, no matter what.

"Administrational changes? Is that fancy-talk for 'my new boss is an ass'?"

Castiel, despite his dark thoughts, can't help but chuckle softly, causing an even wider smile to spread on Dean's lips, and yes, Dean's time is limited, but that doesn't make their time together any less wasted if their talking about Castiel's sorrows. Not when Dean takes so much genuine interest in his problems.

"Yes, that sums it up pretty well."

"Tell me about it."

"A new Stadium Overseer was assigned last year and he has been not as liberal with providing goods for the infirmary as the old one. We survived the last winter mainly by relying on our stocked supplies, but those have been used up by now, and I am quite worried about the coming winter."

Somehow just talking about it, already makes it easier. It feels like part of his worries have been lifted from him, simply by sharing them.

Dean frowns and pulls Castiel closer to him so that he can rest his head on Dean's shoulder. "That's pretty bad, isn't it?"

"Yes Dean, that is pretty bad."

"Can't you get donations or something like that? I mean there have to be tons of people watching and I bet there are some rich folks who get off on this shit. They surely would pay to get their favorite some extra treatment." Castiel entwines his fingers with Dean's, resting both their hands on Dean's knees.

He should check on Dean's injuries soon, change the bandages, apply another layer of liniment, but right now he's too comfortable.

"They already do that. But most of it goes to special treatments for the favorites, little ends up down here. But the idea was a good one, regardless."

"That's too bad." Dean sounds like he really means it and Castiel is stunned once again. Sometimes it's hard for him to wrap his head around that this is really happening. That Dean is real and with him.

Dean watches him silently as he thinks, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on the back of his hand, and Castiel wonders how he had been able to live like this, without someone to share his worries with, without someone who would support and encourage him. He wonders how he could have ever lived without Dean in his life.

"Is that the reason why we haven't had breakfast yet?" Dean asks after a while, pulling Castiel out of his musings.

"Unfortunately, yes. We expect a delivery of supplies today, so I will make it up to you with a healthy lunch hopefully."

"Oh I know a few other ways for you to make it up to me." He doesn't need to look to see the smirk on Dean's lips, it's almost as if there's a physical change in the air, a sort of tension that sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

"I'm afraid that will have to wait for after lunch. I want to change your bandages first, and then I'll have to meet up with Rachel to receive our supplies and I should at least attempt to get some work done."

Dean is silent for a moment, and Castiel contemplates looking up to check if he said something wrong but then, "I'm sorry, I didn't intend to keep you away from your duty." The words are soft and with a hint of guilt, spoken into his hairline and then Dean's gentle lips press against his hair.

"You haven't kept me from anything. I am here of my own volition and I will remain here for as long as I deem necessary or chose otherwise." There's silence again, followed by an amused chuckle that tickles against the skin of his head.

"Alright doctor, you're the boss."

"Indeed I am. Now let me check on your injuries."

* * *

Receiving the supply delivery is a thing of minutes. Or it would be if Rachel hadn't gotten into an argument with the Overseer's representative who surveys the whole thing. And Castiel as much as he despises conflict, has to admit that Rachel has a right to every point she's making.

They are starving, and as much as a the Overseer likes to think that starving them will help him save money, ultimately he just burns out a lot of good Fighters he could milk out for a while longer. Castiel cringes at Rachel's choice of words, but has to concede that point as well, because it's the only language these men understand.

"I don't care how hard it is to get good quality silver these days; do you know how many Fighters we already lost because of that piss-poor excuse of silver you gave us for needles? Or need I remind you that one of them was one of your precious favorite and how upset the High Patriarchs were when their beloved hero died because the needle _splintered?_"

Castiel grimaces as he listens to Rachel's tirade. He hates to remember that certain incident, because it could have been prevented with a little more care. One of the attendees had stitched the man up, just a small cut in his leg, nothing bad, but he had used one of the cheap needles the Overseer had provided them with. Castiel hadn't thought anything of it, they were cheap but they always took care with disinfecting their instruments and so far the needle had worked just fine. But then it splintered, leaving tiny shards of what later turned out to be silvered iron in the wound. Ever since then the only needle that was in use was the one Castiel brought with him, but one needle wasn't nearly enough after a long day in the Stadium.

The Overseer had proven his remorse by proposing a death sentence for the poor attendee, and the Master had signed without a second thought.

"Now tell me, how much did it cost you to find and train another Fighter into a favorite?"

Rachel folds her arms in front of her chest, glaring at the man in front of her, waiting patiently for him to crumble so that he was open to whatever she suggested next. Sometimes Castiel thinks it's almost like a work of art. But there are boundaries to what even Rachel can get out of people, and so he crosses his fingers behind his back, while pretending to go through the pile of crates that holds all their food and supplies for the next week.

They'll have to carry them down into the infirmary on their own, but that's usually the least of their problems. There's a list along with the crates but Castiel has given up on checking the items listed, because usually the contents have nothing to do with what is written down. (They have a word for that, license of shortage and Castiel hates every mention of it.) The delivery is ample this week, mostly thanks to the Mesmeralias and the spirit of giving and sharing that goes with it. So there's at least that.

It's not for the first time that he realizes that without Rachel the whole thing would just collapse on his head. They would have run out of stock months ago and Castiel would have wasted all his saved money on things that Rachel conned and bugged out of the Overseer with her amazing skills in negotiating.

They carry the crates back together as Castiel gives Rachel a rundown on what they got this time. It's a thing of routine between them, both calculating in their heads how long the food will last, the medical equipment, and they're both building a plan in their heads, how long they might last with what they got this time. They'll compare later and meet somewhere in the middle. This strategy has proven to work best over the year.

It's easier in the two weeks of the Mesmeralias. There's one last fight at the beginning, but it's only a show fight to honor the tradition and then they have empty beds for two weeks. And they get a lot of fresh supplies, courtesy of the festivities. A lot of people, the rich and the noble mostly, ease their social conscience by donating food, and this year, they have undoubtedly been lucky. They have a whole box of fresh fruit and vegetables, even a small piece of dried meat - a luxury.

Castiel usually goes into the slums during that time to see what he can do for the poor and those who can't afford a healer. But this year he's been distracted by Dean, and even if he had the equipment to spare, he doubts he would go out, because as selfish as that may be, the thought of leaving Dean for even a few hours, _hurts_.

That's also why he leaves Rachel to do the rest of the sorting on her own. Since they don't have any patients - except Dean - and the attendees have left to participate in the festivities with their families, there's not really much planning to do. She gives him a look, a mix of worry and something else, something almost soft, but her lips are pressed into a tight line and she doesn't say anything when he leaves. But he gets the unspoken message just as well.

* * *

Castiel is distracted. He can't help it, there's too much he has to worry about, too much he has to consider. Dean notices of course, but Castiel feels like he has no right to burden him with his sorrow. He has little doubt that the Overseer will probably come down and throw a hissy fit at some point about the expensive equipment Rachel has demanded, that's how it usually goes at least. The Overseer comes down, complains and then Rachel explains in very fine detail why this expensive investment is worth it in the end.

Greed is a strong motivator after all.

He gets distracted from his distraction when Dean slowly undresses him, takes his time with him, until he's all sweaty and breathless, until the only word that falls from his mouth is Dean. And for a little while longer after that when he kneels between Dean's legs, fingers pressed into shivering skin as he works his mouth to the tune of Dean's voice, consumed by the strange urge to take him all in with his body, let him deep inside of him until he can feel nothing but Dean.

"Talk to me Cas." Dean prompts once they've both descended from their highs. Dean has his arms wrapped around him, bodies pressed together intimately, and yet, Castiel's mind keeps drifting to his conversation with Rachel earlier this morning.

"What about?" Castiel asks softly, hand splayed out on Dean's stomach. He can feel it move with every breath Dean takes, the strength of the muscles underneath. It's like he's connected to Dean in some profound way, like he can feel the pure essence of his life through the palm of his hand.

"You're worried."

"Yes." There is no reason to deny it, not when it's this obvious.

Dean sighs and stubs a finger in Castiel's ribs. "Don't make me play dirty."

"Rachel has expressed her worry that I'm getting to close to my charge." He pauses for a moment, considering. It's not what he intended to say, it's not what has been bothering him, but now that he's said it, he realizes that it's no less the truth. He _doesn't care_ about their supplies or how often he will have to go hungry. He doesn't care that they might run out of firewood soon or that he might have to let go of some of his attendees in order to provide for the others. "You." He adds quietly, after the realization has settled in.

All he can care about is Dean, and everything beyond the ten days they have left together is no longer of importance to him.

"And, are you getting too close?"

"Undoubtedly." Castiel says and for some reason he's smiling. Rachel is right, sharp-minded Rachel, loyal to a fault and worried because she genuinely cares. But there's nothing she can do, because it's already too late. He is too close to Dean and he doesn't care one bit.

Dean is silent after that. His fingers card idly through Castiel's hair, an unconscious but nevertheless comforting gesture and Castiel feels like this is a moment he wants to conserve for eternity.

"I used to be mocked," Castiel says, "For having too much heart."

If Dean understands the implication, he doesn't let on to it.

And Castiel wants to tell him then, how much he's come to care over this little time. How much Dean means to him, and how empty he thinks his world will be once he's gone. But he already understands how Dean will inevitably take the blame on his shoulders and he can't let Dean think he's broken Castiel when he has to go out to face his death.

"Is that so?"

"M-hm."

"I used to think that was a bad thing. Now I'm not so sure anymore."

Dean's voice is like a shiver in the air, a tremble in the fabric around them. Castiel closes his eyes. The room is warm, the fire burning high, casting a red glow over them both. Nothing has changed, not physically so, but Castiel feels like something has broken, some intricate pretense that they've upheld until now.

Castiel is not the only one who's willing to lose his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

Something has changed. It's in Dean's behavior, as much as it is in the glances he keeps throwing Castiel. But he doesn't say anything, so Castiel lets the matter rest, content with just spending time with Dean, reading to him occasionally, but he's interrupted by Dean's greedy hands, more often than not.

Rachel has left to enjoy the festivities finally, after much insistence from Castiel and the assurance that nothing will break just because she's gone for a few days. And all it takes is to see the joy in her eyes when she finally concedes, and Castiel can't even feel bitter about the fact that he can't take out Dean to see the celebrations.

And it leaves him the time and peace of mind to just spend the day in Dean's arms, feeling the heat of his body against his own and wondering, always wondering, how it would feel to have Dean inside of him. He's still mindful of Dean's injuries though, careful to leave him in a position where he won't put too much strain on his ribs, but there is a plan forming in his head. And idea he had when he was sucking Dean off, laid out on his back, hands fisted in Castiel's hair and so deliciously wrecked.

"Don't you have anywhere to be?" Dean teases lightly, hand once again carding through Castiel's hair while his head rests, carefully placed, on Dean's shoulder. (He wonders idly if Dean had a cat at home, if he would scratch her behind the ears like he does with Castiel. He likes that thought, of Dean happy and alive in a cozy little house, with a cat and a squealing rocking chair.)

"Actually yes." Castiel pushes up to look at Dean, the hand in his hair following his movement, almost as if he can't quite let go. "I have this patient I need to take care of. He's quite a pain in the ass." For a moment Dean just stares, but then his face splits into a huge grin and he laughs. It's not full on, because his ribs still protest at too much movement.

Castiel can't help it; he has to kiss those lips, even if that means he has to swallow up the laughter. Dean is surprised for a second, but then he pushes his hand down on Castiel's neck and pulls him that fracture of an inch closer that has them nearly fused with one another. Dean tastes sweet, like the grapes Castiel fed him for breakfast (after much debating and abundant use of the 'I am your doctor' argument, and he mostly conceded because Castiel agreed to feed him with his mouth).

At first it's an innocent kiss, just the need to taste each other, but Castiel is determined to get more and so he licks into Dean's mouth until he hears the moan he's aiming for. That only serves to fuel his hunger and he doesn't let up until Dean is a moaning mess underneath him, lips puffy and red, glistening with saliva.

"Cas." Dean breathes with what little air Castiel has left him. It makes Castiel almost giddy to know that he put the look of want and need on his face, the glow in his eyes. It's like a painting he can change with just a brush of finger tips. Drawing flushed lines on Dean's body with just his breath seems so easy, like it has become second nature to him already.

"I want you." Castiel presses his mouth in the dip under Dean's ear, inhaling the heady scent that is just so Dean, a hint of leather and something darker, muskier underneath that makes every nerve end in Castiel's body spike with arousal. The scent only intensifies with Dean's own arousal.

Dean winds his hand through Castiel's hair, grabbing at the strands, pulling almost painfully as he tries to guide Castiel to where he wants him to be. The bandages are in the way, thick and smelly with the salve he put on Dean's bruises earlier, and so he can reach only one of his nipples. He's solely working on instinct now, on what his body tells him to do, and he catalogues every one of Dean's reactions, from the soft whining noise in the back of his throat whenever Castiel teases his nipple to the almost desperate arch of his back when he allows his fingers to stray lower.

"I want you." Castiel repeats, almost like a mantra. It's like he's waiting for a sign from Dean that he is allowed to continue, to take what he never realized he wanted. And Dean seems so intimately tuned to him that he picks up on it instantly, wrapping his arms around Castiel to just pull him in and hold him for a second.

"I got you alright?"

Castiel exhales, a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and then Dean is kissing him, slow and languid. And it reminds me that they're in this together, that this isn't some competition he has to win on his own, that he has Dean to guide him along the way, just as he can guide Dean.

"Tell me what you want." Dean's voice is soft, but there's a rough edge to it, like he's barely holding it in himself.

"I want you inside of me." It comes out more as a growl than intended, but there's a shiver going through Dean's body, juts upon hearing it and then it's Castiel who finds himself pinned to the bed by Dean's weight.

"You should have said so." Dean growls right back at him, and it's affecting Castiel so much that he even forgets to worry about the state of Dean's injuries. They kiss again, Dean holding himself up with one hand while the other roams over Castiel's body, playing him the same way he played Dean earlier. And every time Castiel moans or gasps, Dean is there to drink it in, to lick the sound from Castiel's lips, swallowing everything he has to offer.

"You've never done this before, right?" Dean asks in between kisses, and Castiel is too wrung out to reply with more than a nod. He can feel the curve of Dean's smile against his skin, warm and with a hint of mischief. "Don't worry, I've got you."

And he has. Castiel had some vague ideas on how this is supposed to work and he worked out on his own that he should be able to ride Dean without straining his injuries too much. But as Dean teaches him now with nimble fingers, there is so much more to it than that.

They had to make do, with some of Castiel's salves, because Dean outright refuses to touch him dry, and when he feels the initial discomfort, Castiel is glad for it. But then Dean wiggles his finger just so, and every little thought is wiped from his mind.

Dean keeps whispering words of praise and reassurance into the nape of Castiel's neck, but he can barely spare the attention to focus on what he's saying. Castiel lies on his side, pressed up against Dean who has his fingers disappearing in, well…

It's madness. It must be, because Dean isn't even touching him on his penis, and yet he's teetering close to the edge already. And then Dean's finger twists over that spot again and it's all Castiel can do not to lose it right then and there. He doesn't know how he manages to hold on long enough for Dean to finish his preparation. And when he finally pulls out his fingers, Castiel is a mess.

His skin is almost feverish, he's covered in sweat and all he can think of is Dean and how beautiful he looks in the red glow of the fire. It's too hot and he's burning up from the inside. Dean fumbles around on the bed, searching for the small container of salve he had used earlier, but Castiel is only half aware of that, he's too busy with forcing air back into his lungs.

He fears he otherwise might blow the second Dean is inside of him.

It takes him longer than it should to notice the stillness of Dean next to him and the expectant glance that comes with it. Dean has his hand wrapped around his cock, fingers slick with the salve he's applied and he looks at Castiel like no one else ever has. It's that look, more than the pose - all laid out on his back- that strikes Castiel as memorable, and he carefully commits it to his memory, intent on never forgetting how he felt that moment when Dean's whole world was centered on him.

"Cas?" Dean prompts and Castiel is pulled out of his reverie. "You were the one who said I had to lie on my back. So either you hop on or I'll have to take charge." Castiel blinks, not exactly sure how to react to Dean's choice of wording. "Sorry, I'm probably not the best choice to introduce you to pillow talk." Dean grins easily, but there's a quiver underneath, want and the need to be patient warring with each other.

That thankfully spurs Castiel into action and he carefully takes the salve out of Dean's hand and places it somewhere on the bed it hopeful won't be kicked off. He allows Dean to guide him into position, legs spread on either side of Dean as he carefully lowers himself down on Dean's length.

He can't help the hiss of air that escapes him at the first blunt press against his entrance, Dean's hands almost instinctively tightening on his legs in an effort to ground him. Castiel lets him, lets him have the control he seems to need so desperately, despite being on his back with Castiel on top. It's hidden, carefully stashed away for Castiel's benefit, but he can sense it nonetheless, the tension of his shoulders, the way he almost trembles with the effort not to just shove up and fully into Castiel.

And again Castiel lets him, allows him to set the pace with which Castiel slides down, torturously slow, but oh so fulfilling. And then he's seated, fully sheathed and he could weep with the joy of being so full of Dean, of being so close that he feels like he's drowning in the fevered heat of his skin.

He takes one deep lung-filling breath of air.

Dean is still underneath him, waiting patiently and Castiel looks down into his perfect handsome face, a face he could trace blindly in the darkness of his mind, whose forms he has memorized to perfection. He smiles. And says one word.

"Dean."

Castiel watches intently as Dean's face lights up, brows creased in concentration smooth out and he smiles too. And then he snaps up his hips, angling himself deep inside of Castiel and with that he is lost again.

It's so much better than what he's imagined, so much more, this deep feeling of being filled up by Dean, having him _inside _of him; it's breathtaking. And not just because Dean seems to pound the air out of him with every thrust.

This wasn't exactly how Castiel planned this - as far as his planning went - but with Dean moving like that underneath him, there is not much else he can do but to hold on. He digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders, extremely mindful of his injuries, gripping tight to keep from falling off. There's a smirk playing on Dean's lips, and he keeps his eyes locked with Castiel's as he keeps pushing in. Castiel tries to move in tune with him as best as he can, but it's so hard to focus on his own movements when Dean keeps pushing against that spot in him that makes his blood buzz with pleasure.

Slowly, Dean picks up the pace, dragging his hands down Castiel's chest, flicking a finger against one of his nipples, forcing a shudder through Castiel's body. He feels all too warm, heat burning under his sweat-slick skin. Dean's hands fit perfectly around his hips, blunt nails dragging over skin and then he holds fast as he increases his speed.

The force of it brings Castiel forward, he bends over Dean's lying form, trapping his own cock between their bodies. He tries to put his weight on his arms next to Dean's head, but after another pointed forceful thrust his arms give way and he barely manages not to drop with all his weight on Dean.

Dean sneaks one arm around his back, keeping him close while he continues his relentless thrusts, drawing more and more filthy sounds from Castiel's lips every time he hits that sensitive spot inside of him. He's long past the point of caring if he's too loud, there's no one there to hear them anyway. He isn't the only one though. At first Dean had been more or less quiet, aside from the occasional grunt, but with increasing speed he seems to lose his composure as much as Castiel does. He's moaning just as bad as Castiel, and every now and then he lets out a groaned curse.

"Fuck, Cas."

Castiel's grip tightens on Dean's shoulder, where he put his hands again after his collapse. He would have never guessed it, but hearing Dean's voice this wrecked, moaning his name, is almost too much for him to handle. The new position adds some well needed friction to his penis and Castiel lets out an especially loud moan. Dean keeps talking, murmuring strings of nonsense mixed in with 'fucks' and 'Cas' and just listening to him alone is almost enough to make him lose it.

He's close now, he can feel the heat and tension build up in his stomach, a wave that is close to crash and all it needs is-

Dean does something with his hips, a gyrating movement of sorts, and the next thing Castiel knows he's floating. He has a faint recollection of heat crashing through him, stars exploding, galaxies created and destroyed within nanoseconds, of a deep profoundness that has formed between him and Dean. It's fleeting, a tingle in the tips of his fingers, a hum in his veins, but the knowledge of it is still there.

He slowly regains awareness of his surroundings, of the warm body under him, the hand that insistently cards through his hair. Dean is talking, has been for a while now, but his words only now start to make sense.

"Hey Cas, are you with me?"

"Dean." Castiel says rather eloquently. He has difficulties to catch up, the aftermath of his orgasm still hasn't left him. His body feels heavy, deeply sated and he doesn't want to move, at all.

"I know I'm comfy, but you got to let me pull out at some point."

Castiel frowns. It takes longer than it should for him to catch up with the situation. Heat shoots in his face and he looks awkwardly back down to where their bodies are still connected. "Right, apologies."

He tries to push himself up and out, but Dean's arms close around him and keep him in place. "There's no rush." He says softly and then his arms tighten and he rolls them both over until they lay on their sides. The movements cause Dean to slip out of him, and the trickle of something cool that follows tells him that Dean also came, even though Castiel has no recollection of it.

"I should-" Castiel starts, half attempting to unwind from Dean's embrace, but is once again stopped by him.

"Don't go." Dean speaks softly against his neck, thumbs drawing idle circles on his back. "Not yet."

It's not exactly comfortable, both with the come leaking out of his ass and the sticky mess he made between their bellies, but he can forget all that for a while, encumbered in the warmth of Dean's arms.

The silence lasts for a long time, but Castiel can't find a reason to complain. It's peaceful and he finds he can lie here in Dean's arms forever, without ever missing something. He can lean over and kiss him whenever he wants, can taste the salty heat of his skin, feel Dean's lips on him in return. He feels like he could live from that, drinking the words that fall from Dean's lips, feed from the heat that radiates from his skin. And he can fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart.

But all that is just an illusion. They live on borrowed time - Dean at least - but for Castiel it's all the same. He realizes then, in that moment, that Dean will break his heart. Not on purpose, but inevitably neveretheless. He can't imagine a life without Dean, so it might as well be over then.

It's a sad thing to think, but Castiel can't help it. He didn't have much of a life after he was expelled from the guild until Dean showed up.

Maybe Dean senses his inner turmoil, or maybe he just chooses this moment by coincidence, but either way, he speaks up

"I don't plan on dying."

And leaves Castiel speechless. The statement comes as a surprise, and at the same time it isn't. It's what he should have expected from Dean, it fits his personality so much more than to meekly accept his fate. But still, the words came as a shock, because he certainly didn't expect them now.

But maybe that's just it. Maybe this connection they formed was all he needed to make this decision. Maybe now that Castiel has offered himself he finally has something to fight for.

"I won't allow them to kill me; I'm not just giving up like that. I will get out of here, if it's the last thing I do." He's fierce, eyes blazing and Castiel is sure, that if he hadn't already fallen, this would be the exact moment when he would irreversibly fall for Dean.

Castiel puts his hand on Dean's cheek, rests it there for a moment, giving himself the time to look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity there, the certainty of his decision. He could drown in the endless depth of green, could wrap himself in every layer of emotion he finds there, and still he would discover something new in the next moment.

"I won't let you die." He whispers, voice thick with the tight feeling in his chest, the desperate love he feels burning underneath his skin. "I won't." He repeats, more fiercely this time.

So this is what it feels like to be lost so completely, that the mere thought of rebelling against the Master's decree is just the logical conclusion of his feelings for Dean. He should be afraid, should be wary of the consequences for both of them, but he can't be, not when the alternative would be to let Dean die.

"I can't have you in this halfway Cas, I want you completely or not at all. This could be the last week of my life, do you understand that?"

"Of course."

Dean's eyes widen, almost imperceptibly and it sends a jolt of _something_ through Castiel. It's like Dean didn't really expect him to agree; it's like Dean had feared all this time that Castiel would abandon him, even after what they just shared.

He smiles, but it's tentative, timid almost.

"Even though you know what I did?" Dean says, voice carefully neutral, but Castiel can see right through it.

"I don't believe that you deserve this." Dean just raises an eyebrow at him, and there's so much disbelief there, it breaks Castiel's heart. And all this, the thing they just shared, it seems so fragile now. Like Dean never expected it to go this far, for Castiel to actually let him in. The way his voice trembled when he begged Castiel not to get up right after. And he wonders just how much of the bravado is a façade.

"What's the matter with you?" Castiel frowns, searching Dean's face for an answer he already knows deep down. "You don't think you deserve to be saved."

"I killed someone in cold blood, of course I don't deserve to be saved."

"So why do you want to escape then?" Dean is stunned then, opening and closing his mouth in succession a few times before he finally settles and shuts it completely. He takes another few moments before he finally replies.

"Because I found you."


	7. Chapter 7

Despite his big words, Dean apparently didn't have a plan ready yet. But Castiel didn't expect him to. Something like this requires a lot of time, and although they don't have much of that, it should still suffice to get them at least a few ideas. That's what Castiel keeps telling himself throughout the night.

It's no surprise that neither he nor Dean sleep much.

Castiel keeps wracking his head, but in the end he always comes to the same conclusion. He will have to smuggle Dean out somehow, there is no other way. The infirmary is at one of the deepest levels of the Stadium building, above only the dungeons where the prisoners are held (those who are sentenced to death, punished for a crime, or the occasional disgraced Fighter that needs to be taught a lesson).

The dungeons are a dead end, there's no way out from there. And leaving the infirmary upwards means walking through all the other levels up to the main floor, where chances are high to run into other people. There's only one way past them Castiel can think of. It's risky, no doubt, but it's also a real chance, about the only one they've got. And only Castiel can make it possible.

And the thought scares him. Not because it's dangerous, no, he has seen far too much danger in his life to not know how to handle it. But because there won't be a way back for him. There never had been much of a life here to begin with true, but this has nevertheless been his life. But it's also true that there is nothing really holding him here. There is Rachel and his attendees, and as dear to him as they are, they are circumstantial comrades.

So really, running away with Dean is the obvious choice. Still, it makes his heart heavy to know that he will leave behind a life he had lived for years now. And as bad as it sometimes got, it was stable, it gave him at least some sort of purpose. But now he has Dean.

At least he won't have to worry about Rachel. If she's anything, it's crafty, and she will definitely find an occupation that suits her better than tidying up after him.

Dean grumbles something under his breath and snuggles closer into Castiel's chest, shoulders incrementally tensing by something that must trouble him in his dreams. He managed to fall asleep about an hour ago, but his rest is fitful and Castiel combs a soothing hand through his hair. It's early in the morning, but Dean needs all the rest he can get. As much as he enjoyed their encounter yesterday, he can't help but feel bad about the strain it undoubtedly put on Dean's body. Everything seemed fine when he checked yesterday, but that was merely superficial, there's no way of knowing how much pain and discomfort Dean is covering up for.

The comforting touch is enough for Dean to relax again and he tightens his grip around Castiel. Castiel has barely slept, but he finds that lying like this, just holding Dean close, is enough to make him feel rested.

Hours pass, or maybe seconds, time has the habit of flying when he's with Dean. There's no fire lit this time, just darkness and the faint outlines of Dean's body. He goes over his plan in his head, again and again, but there is not much he can change to make it better. It's inherently simple, it must be, it's one of the things he's learned from his days with the military. Keep your plans simple and you have a better chance of success.

Still, there is so much that can go wrong.

Dean stirs, grumbling something again, and then there are warm lips on his neck, a lazy kiss and Castiel's body instantly fills with warmth.

"Morning Cas." Dean mumbles against the wet spot he kissed on his skin and Castiel closes his eyes at the sensation. He isn't exactly in the mood right now, but that doesn't mean he won't be, if Dean keeps this up.

"Good morning Dean." Castiel greets with a soft smile on his lips. He seems to do this a lot these days; smiling. And it's all thanks to Dean.

Dean's leg nudges between Castiel's and Dean presses closer until they're almost inseparable. He can feel Dean's erection press against his stomach, hot and insistent. "I think I have a condition." Dean says with a grin and places another kiss on Castiel's neck.

There's the voice in the back of his head that reminds him to be careful with Dean, but Dean's body speaks an entirely different language. He's moving slowly, grinding his hips against Castiel's; hands rubbing up and down his back. And Castiel would have to lie to say he wasn't the least bit affected.

"I think I need a doctor." Dean's voice is huskier now, colored by a promising shade of arousal.

"Maybe you should watch your health, this is the second time in two days you were in need of a doctor." Castiel comments drily, earning him a muffled snort and a peck on the cheek.

"Maybe I'm just addicted to your services." Dean counters and Castiel doesn't need the light to know that Dean's eyebrows just waggled suggestively.

"I can see that." Castiel says with a decided stroke over the bulge in Dean's pants - the pants Castiel coaxed him in before they went to sleep the day before. As much as he enjoys Dean's skin on his, sleeping garments fulfill a purpose aside from modesty, and he doesn't want Dean to catch a cold from sleeping naked in a cold room. Even more so since Dean has a future to live up to.

"Can you now? And what are you going to do about it?"

"Well in my professional opinion you need another helping of my services." Castiel flicks a finger against the now growing bulge, smiling silently to himself when Dean swallows back a groan.

"But I would have to do an in-depth examination to make absolutely sure." Castiel idly wonders if he's developing some kind of fetish. As gruesome as real medical treatments can be, especially on a battlefield, there's a certain appeal to playing it out like this.

"Is that so?" Dean's voice is rough around the edges, his breath hitching every time Castiel touches him. "What is with you and playing doctor?"

Castiel laughs softly, dragging a finger along the curves and angles of Dean's body, marveling silently over the sheer beauty of it. His finger catches on a scar, scarcely healed and the feeling makes something twinge in his chest. The scent of the salve he applied to Dean's wounds is ever present in the air, and Castiel wonders to himself how it would feel like out in the open. Only him and Dean, on a soft patch of grass, the scent of spring in the air and no blemish to mar Dean's body.

"What's so funny?" Dean's voice is calm again and he starts to play with Castiel's hair, a soft tug that has Castiel close his eyes for a moment.

"I indeed enjoy playing doctor with you." Castiel finally takes mercy and pushes his hand under the hem of Dean's pants. It sends a thrill through his veins to have Dean like this, sprawled out next to him and writhing from just a touch of his hand.

"So then treat me, doctor." Dean teases with a smirk so big, Castiel could have heard it in the other room. And then Dean says something that has Castiel lose his breath for once. "I'm all yours, doctor." He seems to not be the only one who has developed a kink.

"Really?" Castiel drops his voice even lower, knowing full well that Dean has a thing for it, and the reaction he gets proves him right. Dean shudders minutely and he puffs out a soft exhale. "You'd do everything I say? I'd take good care of you." He keeps his hand hovering inches over Dean's crotch, not wanting to influence his decision in any way.

There's a silence for a moment, only broken by Dean's panting. And when he finally replies, it has Castiel's blood singing. "Yes." No doctor this time, and that's how Castiel knows that he's serious.

It's like a rush of pure energy shooting through his veins, and Castiel has to take a short pause just to allow the awe he feels to run through him.

"I'm sure you'll make it good." Dean leans over to whisper into his ear.

"Don't move." Castiel growls back in reply, feeling the tremble that goes through Dean's body firsthand. Part of him is afraid that he might do something wrong, that he'll screw up the trust Dean is obviously putting in him, but he also knows that he can do this. He's taken care of Dean over the last few days, has healed his body and what feels like part of his soul too. He _knows_ him.

Dean lies down obediently, and even in the darkness of their room, Castiel can feel the lines of his face angled into a smile. He traces them with his fingers and then with his lips until Dean's breath is coming out in erratic puffs. And when Dean's mouth is sufficiently loose and swollen from kisses Castiel finally moves on to lower territory, repeating the process until Dean's body is as pliant as it can get. And every time his fingers catch on a scar he pauses to press a kiss to the spot. He drags his teeth over the skin, pulling it in between his lips and sucks, until he's sure that the scar is hidden under a new bruise.

Dean shudders every time he does it, along with letting out a sound that makes Castiel's blood boil with desire.

"Cas, please." He moans, hands buried in Castiel's hair, trying desperately to urge him on, but every time he exerts too much force Castiel reprimands him by withdrawing his attention until Dean groans with frustration and puts his hands down in an obvious display of surrender.

Dean is nothing more but an incoherent mess by the time Castiel reaches his lower body. It takes only a few quick tugs and he gets rid of the pants and when he catches the erection springing free with his mouth, Dean's whole body seems to seize up. His hand falls from Castiel's hair, scrambling desperately at the sheets for some purchase, anything to hold on to.

"Fuck Cas." Dean groans out and Castiel simply pulls his lips into a smile around Dean's cock in his mouth. He could get addicted to this. He's certainly not the best at giving head, and aside from his earlier stunt it's mostly just running on sloppy instinct, but Dean's reactions justify all his efforts.

Castiel is hard himself, painfully so, and knowing that Dean is coming undone at the seams just because of him, puts his self control to a hard test. He has to dive away temporarily to retrieve the small jar with salve they substitute for proper lubrication. Castiel makes a mental not to get some lube later on. The liniment works and is harmless, but it's not ideal.

He kisses away the whine that spills from Dean's mouth as he's left wanting. "I told you I'll take care of you." Castiel whispers against his skin, enjoying the scratch of stubble against his chin. Dean hasn't shaved since the time Castiel brought him his shaving kit. Castiel likes it though. It reminds him of Dean's strength, they're equals in this, and everything he does to Dean is because he allows it to be done.

Preparing Dean is even sloppier than sucking him of had been, only that this time Castiel runs mostly on what he's remembered from the time Dean had his fingers up his ass. He's very careful, keeping a close eye on Dean's reactions, being on high alert to pull out should Dean show any sign of discomfort. But what he gets instead is amazing. Dean is panting hard, hands closed around the bunched up sheets as he pushes himself down on Castiel's fingers.

Castiel wishes it wouldn't be so dark - he can barely make out the outlines of Dean's body as it is - so he could see the expression on Dean's face, put a visual to the sounds he's causing. But doing this in the dark has something deeply intimate. He can't see Dean's face, but he can feel every one of his reactions, can feel the unsteady rising of his chest, can feel every little stutter of said breath whenever Castiel touches that spot inside of him he has figured out must be the prostate.

(He could have counted off every little function of the prostate, every medical condition that could befall it, but he could have never guessed the effect it could have when stimulated.)

"Cas, fuck. Stop teasing." Dean groans out and Castiel twists his finger in the right way to make him arch off his back.

"Did you want something?" Castiel asks with fake innocence, pulling out and draping his body over Dean's, pressing his still clothed erection to Dean's in an obvious show of what is to come.

"Cas, fuck, please." Dean's breath is ragged, body strung taut as he trembles under every little touch. Castiel takes pity on him. Besides, he wants this just as badly. It takes way too long to pull off his clothes, and he's way too hasty when it comes to lubing himself up, but then he's stricken by a sudden sense of panic.

So far everything went well, but he has never done this before and what if he hurts Dean?

"Cas," Dean is pushing himself up on his elbows, trying to get a good look at Castiel in the darkness. "Don't you dare stop now." Dean's hand finds his somewhere in the dark and Castiel grips on to it like a lifeline. He leans over to kiss Dean, takes his time with it too. And Dean melts against him, pliant and inviting and it gives Castiel the confidence he needs. He can do this.

Castiel moves between Dean's legs, pulling up his hips until they're angled right. He can't see Dean's face, but he's sure that he's found his eyes regardless. Lining up takes a lot of fumbling and slippery hands don't really help, but when he finally has the right position to push in, it all becomes inconsequential. He's there, he's finally there.

Sliding into Dean is a feeling like nothing he's ever encountered in his life. He's so hot and Castiel swears he can feel him clench around him. Castiel's heart beat is a steady rhythm drummed out against his ribs and his breath rivals Dean's at this point. There are no words to describe the feeling of being _inside _Dean.

Dean is tense underneath him, he can feel it. Castiel stops his forward movement, and suddenly he feels like there is way too little contact between them. He leans forward, careful not to make Dean uncomfortable and pulls him up and against his chest. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, fingers momentarily tense where they clutch around Castiel's shoulders, but then he releases both his hold and his tension and sinks down with one swift motion.

The sensation punches a sound out of Castiel's chest he didn't think was possible. It's a mixture of a moan and a scream, and he has to make an honest effort not to come right then and there.

"Are you alright?" He seeks out Dean's face with his lips, brushing over his jaw and chin until he finds his lips and he can feel the curve of his smile against his own. Dean's arms circle around him and for a moment they just hold each other, and just _breathe_.

"Dean," Castiel says after a while, hands playing with the fine hair at Dean's neck. "I will get you out of here." A shift goes through Dean's body, subtle but unmistakably for how closely they are wrapped around each other. "If it's the last thing I do." Castiel adds, and even though the thought is sudden, the sincerity is unquestionably.

"Cas." Dean's voice sounds lost, too quiet in the darkness. And Castiel doesn't give him the chance to say anything more. He starts rocking his hips in a steady motion, drawing every word that might have come from Dean's lips.

"This. Is. Not. Debatable." Castiel accentuates every word with a thrust of his hips. Dean's nails catch on the skin of his back and he will probably carry the marks for a while, but Castiel doesn't care. He adjusts is hold on Dean, hands splaying over the zigzag of scars there. A moan falls from Dean's lips, startled and a little breathless as his finger run over the hickeys he just recently left there.

Castiel drags his hands down Dean's back to his hips, pushes his thumbs into the dip where leg meets body. An aborted moan falls from Dean's mouth and he grasps at Castiel's shoulders. His legs are shaking from the effort to keep himself up for Castiel to have room to move, and when Castiel pushes his hands under Dean's behind to support him he sags down with a miniscule sigh of relief.

Dean isn't exactly light, but after another shift of his hips, Castiel manages to support him well enough. He picks up the pace then, snapping his hips forward repeatedly until Dean is an incoherent mess above him. Castiel angels their head for a kiss. Dean's mouth hangs open, low gasps and moans escaping him every now and then. Castiel licks his way inside Dean's mouth, even discontinuing his thrusts for the few seconds it takes to kiss Dean breathless.

And when he's thoroughly sated, he snaps his hips forward rapidly, making Dean clench tightly around him. He's moaning again, voice hoarse from the constant use and Castiel can tell that he's close now. But there is still something missing. Dean's erection is trapped in between their bodies, the tip dragging wet trails over Castiel's belly, but the friction isn't enough to grant him relief.

"Touch yourself, Dean." Castiel orders. He can't spare a hand himself, but apparently that was exactly what Dean needed to hear. It rips a moan from his lips and for a moment he just clutches tightly at Castiel's shoulders. Another sharp twist of his hips and Dean is reminded of his task. He's messy, needs two attempts to properly grip his cock and his tugs are quick and erratic. But it does the trick and after another few forceful thrusts Dean spills his seed in between them, Castiel's name on his lips.

He falls against Castiel afterwards, all strength drained from his lips, lips mouthing softly at the skin on Castiel's neck. And he allows them to fall back together, Dean coming to rest on his chest, breath still puffing out in huffs. Castiel doesn't move, even though his erection still demands attention, but for the moment he can live with being simply sheathed inside of Dean.

"Thanks Cas." Dean mumbles against his skin, nuzzling deeper in the crook of Castiel's neck.

"For what?" Castiel asks, voice raspy and breathless, shaking with the effort to keep his hips still. Dean hesitates for a moment, his movement stilled, but then he pushes himself up to look down at Castiel. He seems to glow in the dark; Castiel can make out every little line on his face, every angle, and it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He reaches up to rest a hand on Dean's cheek, rub a thumb over the skin under his eye, and he feels the irresistible pull of a smile on his lips.

Dean smiles back, eyes twinkling in that light that seems to come from within him. "For everything." He says softly, and then he starts to move, slowly but steady, startling a surprised moan out of Castiel. Dean has pushed himself up into a sitting position now, gyrating his hips in quick circles, and Castiel is in shambles in mere seconds. "Come on Cas." Dean growls low in his throat, and all it takes for Dean is to tweak one of his nipples and Castiel is done for.

Coming inside of Dean, filling him up with his seed, is on a whole new scale than just coming regularly. It's as if Castiel's mind is blown out. His hands grip on Dean's hips, probably leaving a new set of bruises but he doesn't care. Every bruise he leaves on Dean is another sign that he belongs to him.

Dean smirks at him during the whole of it, but Castiel is too satisfied to care much right now. Instead he pulls Dean down again, until he rests against Castiel's side, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

They lie like this for a while, until Castiel decides that lack of fire also means lack of warmth and goes to refuel it. Castiel has stocked up the supply of firewood the day before, but still the pile of logs is meager at best.

Dean is lying back on his stomach, eyes closed and what appears to be napping, so Castiel takes a few moments to just look at him in the newly lit room. Dean looks tired, even now. There are dark circles under his eyes and a cover of sweat on his face. The cut on his forehead is nothing more but a pronounced red line and Castiel thinks he can pull the sutures tomorrow.

The bandage on his chest is sweat soaked, but judging by how little Dean is hindered by it, he might not need a bandage anymore. Most bruises are healed, only a few yellow and green blotches remain, along with the new purple bruises Castiel has left there only recently. What he can't see are the scars on Dean's back, both the fine white lines on his lower back, and the crisscross pattern of poorly healed whip scars on his shoulders. But he knows they're there.

The thought makes him angry.

"Come to bed Cas." Dean mumbles, one arm flopping to the side and making a gesture that Castiel identifies as some half form of a wave and a wiggling index finger. It is probably supposed to invite him back to bed.

Castiel can't help the smile on his face. It's something about Dean that just invites smiles.

"We haven't eaten yet."

Dean groans. "Food is for the weak."

"Oh, and cuddling is not?"

"Not when you do extreme cuddling."

"Extreme cuddling? How is that supposed to work?"

"Come to bed and I'll show you."

Castiel stands up and goes to fetch his pants from where they dropped on the floor. "I wish to take advantage of the filled state of our supply closet. You need sustenance to get your strength back."

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Castiel shoots him a pointed look and he snaps his mouth shut.

"Bring beer." Dean calls after him when Castiel leaves through the door, taking the bucket with him that Dean has to use as a makeshift toilet. (He should do something about that probably, maybe show him the bathroom he and the attendees use.)

The corridors are empty as expected, and Castiel has to stumble around in the dark until he's found the flint stones that are stored in a small hole in the wall to ignite the first of the tallow lamps. Strangely though, as much as he is used to the dreary silence, it feels wrong and lonely for the first time. Rachel is staying at her parents' house for the next few days, until the next delivery is expected. That means, weren't it for Dean, he would be truly alone in the infirmary. A thought that never had bothered him, but now he wants to make haste to return to Dean.

He quickly empties the bucket and puts it outside the kitchen door as a reminder to take it back in time.

There's no meat, as usual; they've already eaten the bit that came with the last delivery - special treat - but the bag of pearl barley gives him an idea. Dean needs more nutrients than bread and cheese meals can give him, especially considering the often poor quality of both. He plans to take advantage of the current high supply of fresh vegetables. A healthy vegetable soup - or rather a broth, will remedy that. He goes back to fetch Dean, urging him to pull on all his clothes (which used to be Castiel's clothes, meaning they fit tight in all the right places, and Castiel is just the right side of decent to admire that), and adding a blanket as a makeshift coat, before he allows him out of his room.

Dean is excited, even though all there is to see are blank stone walls, a few wooden doors and some questionable dried puddles on the floor. Castiel's spare pair of shoes is too small for him and he trudges awkwardly along Castiel, listening to the explanations he gives as to what is behind each door.

He files the need to get Dean new shoes and clothes in the back of his mind for later. They won't get far, if Dean looks like a man who robbed the nearest laundry line.

"And that is the kitchen." Castiel finishes his tour and proceeds to open the door to usher Dean inside. There's usually always a fire burning in the kitchen, but since Rachel isn't there and Castiel himself was too occupied it has burned down so they have to rekindle it now. Dean sits down on one of the chairs and watches as Castiel expertly revives the fire. The kitchen is also the only room which has a glow stone, but it's light is barely enough to light the work area.

"You can cut up the celery stalk and the parsnip I laid out on the counter." Castiel proposes once the fire is burning to his satisfaction. They really will have to do something about the amount of firewood they get weekly. They have enough for _this_ week, but it won't last them for long when winter comes.

"No onions?"

"I will cut the onions." Castiel says, earning him a warm smile from Dean.

"You know I'm supposed to point out that I am a man and can cut my own onions."

"Oh you want to cut the onions?"

"No."

"You can cut the carrots then."

"Are you trying to transform me into a rabbit?" Dean asks with a raised eyebrow. He has put the cutting board on the table before him and sits down again to cut his share of vegetables. Castiel places a bowl next to him. He puts their largest saucepan on the flame and adds vegetable oil.

"Where do these go? The bowl?" Dean asks, pointing at the mass of celery dies piled up on his board.

"Yes, you can put all the vegetables in there once you're finished."

"So what are we making here?"

"Barley broth with vegetables."

"Will there be meat?"

"Unfortunately no. You ate everything we had yesterday." Which wasn't really that much.

"Too expensive, huh?"

"And too valuable to waste on people like us." Castiel says it with what he hopes is a tone of light joking, but by the look Dean gives him, he's not buying it.

"People like us? Come on Cas, you don't believe that, do you?"

Castiel halts his chopping movements and looks down at the perfectly diced onion on his plate. "No. But there is nothing I can do. Well, nothing more I can do, beyond what I already have done."

Dean doesn't pry further and they keep chopping up their vegetables in comfortable silence. Castiel eventually stands up to dump the sliced up onions into the saucepan, stirring everything with a wooden spatula. He throws in a few spices when Dean asks:

"So how are we going to do this?"

"Slow burn over an open fire I suppose."

"I meant the escape. You're the expert. I don't even know how it looks outside the infirmary. I'm kind of running blind here." Castiel halts in his stirring, but doesn't look back to where Dean sits.

"I told you I'll get you out of here."

"Yeah, but how? Don't get me wrong I'm grateful, but I want to know how you're going to bust my ass out."

"Chance is people outside don't know how you look, so I'm going to dress you up as one of my attendees and walk out the front door." That's the gist of it, but Castiel still has to do a bit of fine tuning.

"Chance is? You're betting my life on chance?"

Or maybe a lot.

"I'm not betting your life." Castiel puts down the spatula to collect the rest of the vegetables and add them to the sizzling onions. "I'm aware of the flaws, but I promise you, once I'm done with you, you won't be recognizable. No one will question your presence at my side. It's the Mesmeralias, no one will question it if you're wearing a mask." Which means, he'll have to get them both a mask first.

And he'll have to find Rachel. He can't do this alone.

"If you say so." Dean says easily, leaning back in his chair. And Castiel is stricken for a moment by the severity of the situation. Dean _trusts_ him with his life. There's a gravity to it that has Castiel reeling for a moment.

"Everything alright?" Dean asks.

"Yes, everything is fine." Castiel replies with a smile. He takes an old wooden cup out f the cabinet and uses it to scoop out barley from the bag and adds it to the mix. His hands are shaking slightly, but it's a rush of excitement that courses through him.

"You sure?" He hasn't heard Dean moving, but he must have, because now he's standing right behind Castiel, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.

"Yes Dean, I am sure." Castiel tilts his head to rest it against Dean's.

"Okay."

"Dean."

"Cas?"

"You'll have to let me move or our lunch will burn."

"Can't I move with you?" Dean's voice is a low and pleasant rumble in his ears.

"Dean, you are insufferable."

"Is that a no?"

"…no."

Granted, moving with a human shaped cape isn't exactly easy, but Dean does his best to align his steps with his and they somehow manage to reach the section of the stone counter that is actually hollow and covered with a wooden cover. Inside is their water supply. It doesn't look too clean, but both Castiel and Rachel go to great pains to make sure that it's clean. And when in doubt, they always cook it before using. That's also why they have two metal canisters next to the water storage that hold already cooked water.

"Is that the water I have been drinking?"

"Don't worry, I made sure it's clean."

Castiel fills what he estimates to be enough water into their unofficial cooking bucket. It serves no other purpose then to transport water from the water hole to where they need it. Since Rachel threw a fit after too many dislocations of one of the canisters and no one feeling responsible for returning them to their rightful place.

"I'm sure making a habit of giving my life in your hands." Dean's tone is light, but there is the gravity again. And Castiel realizes that Dean knows it too. Before Castiel can say anything, Dean already continues, "I wouldn't know a better place for it."

Castiel is speechless for a moment, but a popping log in the fireplace reminds him of his task. And since Dean hasn't let go of him yet, instead he has taken up nuzzling his nose very distractingly into Castiel's neck, they awkwardly shuffle back to their simmering food.

After pouring in the water and another set of seasoning (from what little they have in stock), it's another half an hour of waiting an lots of impromptu kissing, and maybe even a bit of making out against the kitchen counter, until the broth is finished.

Dean insists on helping him with clean up, but Castiel is adamant in sending him back into his room. He allows him however to take the bucket that's still waiting outside the kitchen, with him. When he returns to Dean's room he's awaited by a surprise. Dean has pushed two of the cots together to form a bigger bed for them. He also piled all of the available blankets and pillows on top of it.

Castiel wonders why they didn't think of that earlier.

They end the day in their new bed, hidden underneath what Dean calls 'the most awesome pillow fort the world has ever seen'. Castiel has brought rations with him, foreseeing correctly that Dean won't let him leave to fetch dinner, and so they snack on apples again. There's bread and cheese too, and Castiel even dared to take one of the two oranges that had been generously given as 'a sign of the Master's generosity'. Never mind that they are small and probably from last year. To Castiel they taste just like heaven.

So do Dean's lips afterwards as they roll around, pulling down the fort around them, until they are covered in a mountain of blankets.


	8. Chapter 8

Seven days left. Seven days until the end of the festivities, until the Games start again and until Dean's life is supposed to end.

They have much to do.

Dean complains a lot, but Castiel is firm in his decision. They need provisions and what they have in the infirmary, is not nearly enough. Aside from food, there are other things they will need, clothes for Dean, a cover, something to hide his identity. And, as Dean so readily adds, proper lubrication.

It's good to know they have their priorities in order.

Dean complains, but he concedes eventually. After Dean has made sure that he's engraved his memory in Castiel's body, has made sure that he can feel Dean long after he has walked out of the Stadium; feel him in every one of his muscles when he moves.

It's the insistent ache in his body that has him smiling the whole way out of the infirmary and the rest of the large underground portion of the Stadium. It's a giant complex, full of corridors that people could easily get lost in - as far as Castiel knows, a lot of them actually do.

The guards posted in front of the door that leads into the infirmary - which just so happens to be the only entrance - greet him with stoic impassiveness. There's no love between the Stadium guards and the medical personnel, but they share a strained form of mutual respect. As in; stay out of each other's hair and no one has to get hurt.

It's always a shock to walk outside. Due to its underground localization, the Stadium is a perpetually cold place; even in the height of summer. The summer glow is at its peak, only a few more days left, before the weather stones cease their function for this year and autumn falls. It's century old magic, a spell of endless summer, woven by the sorcerers of the old days, and their spell has not yet waned. The glow isn't as hot as it used to be, but Castiel can only be glad for it. No one really remembers what the purpose of the spell was, but the people have since embraced the two-weeks celebration of the Mesmeralias, so no one asks too many questions. Even if that means that some days during the summer can get unbearably hot.

The first few steps are actually quite pleasant. The warm air is like a balm on his chilled skin, but that only lasts for about thirteen seconds. Soon Castiel is sweating.

The streets are full of people, the air heavy with the thick smell of flowers, strong enough to even drown out the stench that usually hangs over the city. There's not an inch of ground that isn't covered with flower petals, glitter or parts of the many streamers that hang from every available house front. There are stalls everywhere, selling flowers (who would have guessed), food, gifts, more food, alcohol, masks, costumes, knickknacks that have no real use aside from looking nice (or not) and a lot of other things of questionable use.

And almost everyone is dancing or cheering, and Castiel gets hugged randomly by at least ten people, half of them inebriated to a point they probably aren't even aware that he's a stranger. It's a striking contrast to the rest of the year, where the people of the city (and by extension the rest of the country) are subdued and quiet, wallowing in their misery that is only eased by the Games.

And for two weeks per year they get to forget their poverty, their insignificance to their ruler. A lot of the celebrators wear masks, some ornamental and intricate, some simple, but all are colorful, adorned with feathers, or small beads of glass that twinkle like diamonds in the glowing sun. Some depict animals, others mythical beasts, a few are just abstract human faces. And with the masks come costumes, simpler than the masks, often stitched together from many different fabrics, and the more colorful for it.

Castiel tries to dodge as many huggers as possible. He's not exactly sore - it's more of a pleasant ache - but he wants to preserve the intimate feeling of Dean's touch lingering on his skin for as long as possible. But then again, there wasn't much of a chance of that to begin with, what with the rivulets of sweat that seem to pour down his body.

People offer him drinks and cheers, and the happiness flitting around him is almost contagious. But Castiel doesn't quite feel the ease he usually feels during the festivities. It's a time of being generous and charitable, but what he's about to do now is nothing short of treason.

And if he fails, Dean might die.

He purchases two masks, one blue and one green, easily enough, but the rest will be more of a problem. Most shops are closed - their owners mingling with the crowd on the streets. But there are a choice few that valiantly resist the cheerful singing and the frolicking outside their doorsteps. The Master frowns upon everyone doing business during the Mesmeralias, but it's a necessity, and thus nothing is done about it.

Castiel is met with idle disinterest when he enters the first shop selling clothes that is actually open. It's not his first choice when it comes to both price and quality, but he doesn't really have any other options. Not during this time of the year. The clothes are poorly woven, some with questionable stains Castiel doesn't want to think too closely about. The threads are of rather poor quality and Castiel is starting to lose hope that he'll find anything of use there.

The clerk clears his throat. A clear sign of his impatience with Castiel's continued presence. A notion that is completely beyond Castiel, because he's neither obtrusive nor does the clerk have anything else to do.

He finally settles on a pair of pants that don't look too bad and two shirts that, albeit threadbare, are at least clear of stains. To that he adds a few pairs of the cleanest underwear he can find, and a pile of socks, wishing desperately for a chance to wash them before Dean has to wear them. The clerk gives him a dirty grin as he takes his money, and Castiel feels inexplicably sullied.

Castiel doesn't have much money let; he already had to empty the small stash of money he'd hid away in the wall behind his bed, and he doesn't have much doubt that there won't be anything left once he has gotten everything.

Getting shoes is even harder than getting clothes, and when he finally finds a store that actually sells shoes, he has to invest a lot of time again, to find a pair that would fit Dean, meets their basic requirements _and_ is affordable. It's a whole miracle in itself that he even finds a pair. Compared to that getting the lube for their shared activity is almost laughably easy.

Food is another thing on the list, and while there are more stalls selling food that he can count, none of them sell anything that wouldn't grow bad on their third day. And while getting clothes during the Mesmeralias is hard, getting food outside of the festivities is close to impossible. All the vendors have installed stalls somewhere, selling sweets and fruits, pastries and small cakes, grilled meat on sticks, grilled meat not on sticks, a whole ox on a rotating spit, bread buns filled with creams and other things, roses frosted with sugar, small fried birds roasting over open fires, giant pots with soups cooking and bubbling idly over more open fireplaces, small pralines, nougats, toffees; not to mention a plethora of alcoholic drinks, kegs full of beer and mead, barrels of rum and wine, liquors and schnapps and a lot of other things Castiel doesn't have a name for.

He's definitely hungry now.

Castiel finally gets what he wants after bugging one of the vendors Rachel-style into selling him some of his regular stuff. He gets bread and cheese, dried fruits, a slab of ham and a bag of nuts. The bread is already hard and the ham is wrinkled up and tiny, but Dean has voiced his craving for meat more than once, and since the vendor wants it off his hands anyway, Castiel happily obliges.

But now it's time to get the last puzzle piece for his plan; and that will undoubtedly be the hardest part of his shopping tour. He has to find Rachel.

Which ends up being the quite literal search for a needle in a haystack.

In the end it's Rachel who finds him. He had asked around, asked ever person sober enough to be cognizant if he'd seen her and eventually someone had. Something like this wouldn't be possible on any other day, but it's the Mesmeralias and as soon as the crowd realized that someone was looking for someone, everyone did their best to help. People going out of their way to look for Rachel, to ask around on Castiel's behalf; it's heartwarming.

Yet it takes hours. Hours that Castiel spends anxiously waiting and searching, wondering with every passing second what Dean is doing, if he's missing him already. And then Rachel shows up from seemingly nowhere, a crown of flower woven in her hair, cheeks rosy with laughter and wine. She's beautiful like this, young and unburdened. And it tears at Castiel's heart what he has to ask of her.

In the end she agrees to his plan, takes it with a smile and a hint of sadness in her eyes, but she agrees. There's no logical reason why she would do it - it's dangerous, but because of some overgrown sense of loyalty, she does. And Castiel doesn't question her. He's too thankful, too grateful. And he is awed, humbled almost, by the unquestioning unwavering devotion he sees in Rachel's eyes.

Her smile is tight when they bid their goodbyes, but she leans in regardless, to peck a quick good look kiss on his cheek. There's heaviness to her step, but she doesn't waver as she walks away and vanishes in the crowd.

Castiel watches until he can no longer see her. His arms are heavy with the weight of the bags he carried for hours now, but there is still that pleasant tingle on his skin that reminds him of Dean's touch earlier. At least he can go home now.

But not before buying two skewers with bits of rabbit dripping with sauce; a treat for Dean who had been craving meat for the last few days. It drains the last of his savings, but ironically it's the cheapest of his purchases. He could have just taken it for free otherwise.

* * *

He needs a bath. Castiel usually cleans himself with a wet washcloth and soap root, but after one day outside in the glaring sun, wedged in between sweaty bodies and getting hugged more than he could care for; he definitely needs more than just superficial cleaning. He feels dirty. The thick scent of flowers masks most of it, but there is still the stench of the city underneath it all. It makes for a nauseating mix. Castiel wonders how the others can just ignore it like that.

It's actually a relief to return inside the oppressing walls. It's cool inside, and the air, while stale, is at least scent-free; mostly. Not to mention that it's cool. Gloriously cool. Castiel is shivering after seconds, the sweat on his skin cooled off, but he relishes in it. It helps to cool the sunburn on his neck and ears.

The guards give him weird glances as he approaches with his bags and packets. Thankfully he has made it enough of a habit to come and go during the Mesmeralias, sometimes arms packed full with medical supplies and sometimes empty handed. A sight like this is nothing unusual. It's also not unusual that neither of the guards try to help him while he wrestles with the door. It's also customary that at least one of them laughs when he drops the packet with the shoes in an effort to save the meat skewers from the same fate.

It's when he managed to assemble all his things in his arms once again and finally got a foot inside the door when one of the guards speaks up. "The Overseer came to check on your 'special' patient."

Castiel freezes. The guards can't see his face, and that is a good thing. His expression is stuck somewhere between abject horror and cold dread; and a dark heavy fear settles in is gut. He doesn't know how he manages the impossible feat of turning around forcing a noncommittal expression on his face.

"When did he arrive?"

All he can do is cling on to the fact that he hasn't been arrested yet. Whatever happened, it hasn't reached the critical point - yet.

The guard that had spoken earlier shrugs. "About half an hour ago. He wanted to speak to you and since you haven't been in, I figure he's still waiting." There's a frown pinched on his brow, and the way he looks Castiel over suggests that he personally thinks it's an inexcusable offense to let the Overseer wait. Which it is.

Dean would know the perfect word to surmise the current situation, but Castiel's mind is stuck on an endless repeat of the word 'no'. He barely takes the time to get his purchases inside, before he unceremoniously shoves them into the next room and locks the door to be safe. He's close to panic, but he's been in enough crisis situations to keep his head clear. And leaving the evidence of his soon to be betrayal right in front of the door would be downright stupid.

His mind is running. He hadn't been left with specifications, but he's pretty sure that lock picking Dean's bonds and letting him roam freely - while the infirmary was empty no less - is likely to get him into serious trouble.

There's a guard outside of Dean's room. He doesn't spare Castiel so much as a glance, but steps aside regardless. Castiel is aware of his dusty and quite pathetic sweaty state, but he doubts that he could make it any worse at this point. Besides, he can't leave Dean alone with the Overseer for much longer; he has to do as much damage control as he can.

The Overseer sits on Castiel's stool, back to the fireplace and a carefully crafted mask of indifference on his face. But the fact that stands out to Castiel, is that Dean is nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Dean?" He blurts out before thinking, but the worry nagging in his belly doesn't allow him to stay calm.

The Overseer is a man with an impressive physical presence that easily overshadows his presence of mind. Castiel hasn't talked much to him, but it has clearly become evident that he doesn't care about much other than money and his next promotion. He's older than Castiel, grey hair already receding, and self satisfaction dripping from every pore.

Rachel calls him an inflated ball sack. Castiel has to agree.

"In the dungeons, where he belongs."

Something very cold seems to drip down Castiel's spine.

"What…?" He can't form words; he can't think straight. Everything is a mess in his head.

"I've been told of your… indiscretions." Zachariah - the Overseer - declares with that pompous gravity he's so fond of. "While I personally couldn't care less about where you find your outlet," he wrinkles his noise to show his disdain about Castiel's choice, "I can't risk you getting to close to your charge. You are a valuable asset Castiel." This time the disdained frown is audible. "I can't allow this mongrel to cloud your judgment."

Castiel slumps down on the bed, eyes wide with horror as he stares at Zachariah. He can't even find the anger to be mad at Zechariah for calling Dean a mongrel. All he can do is stare.

"I'm doing this for your best interest, Castiel. The Master has expressed his pleasure with your continued services. I am merely making sure that it stays that way."

"What have you done to Dean?"

"Nothing." Zachariah's voice is ice cold now, and the look he gives Castiel is more than enough threat to remind him to mind his tone. "I simply picked up the slack you've had with him. He is a prisoner Castiel. I can't begin to imagine why you would even consider him. If it's whores you want I could get you plenty." There's a sour expression around Zachariah's mouth, as if the words were lemons he had to bite out.

"The Master has made it quite clear that he is fond of your work. He urged me to show you my full support. By all means Castiel, ask and you shall be given."

"Release Dean back into my care."

"No."

Castiel glares at him.

"You realize what you've done so far could be very well considered treason. The Master thinks you're merely infatuated." If Zachariah frowns any more, it'll get permanently stuck to his face, Castiel thinks offhandedly. It's such an incongruous thought, but he clings to it. Because everything else would just get him into more trouble right now. And if he strikes out at Zachariah, it will be the end of both Dean and him.

"He is actually quite fond of the idea of you loosening up finally. But I know better." Zachariah steeples his finger in his lap, another one of his well practiced gestures that is supposed to impress others. "I'm doing you a favor Castiel. The Master has for whatever inexplicable reason taken a liking to you, but he will not hesitate to execute you should you so much as try to take away his prize."

Zachariah leans back, hands now resting on the one knee he has thrown over the other leg, a generous smile on his face that doesn't reach his eyes.

"You have guards posted outside." Castiel says with barely contained rage. "Do you think your own people this incompetent that I would be able to just spirit Dean past them?" Castiel tries his hardest to think straight, to not let the rage wash away his rationality. The battle experience helps. But the urge to throttle Zachariah is still there. After letting them almost starve for months, he now dared to take Dean away from him.

"I'm not saying you would have made it." He says coldly, all pretense of friendliness thrown out of the nonexistent window. "I had my eyes on you Castiel. Don't take me for stupid. You've been holed up with that mongrel for days, and while I don't know every detail of it, I only have to take one educated guess to figure it out. You would have tried; you would have failed; you would have died."

"Now we're never going to find out, do we?" Castiel snaps, all efforts for clear-headedness forgotten. He will not stand for any more insults thrown at Dean. Zachariah is stunned. "Dean is my patient in case you missed that. Now, there are certain treatments he still needs to get better _as to the Master's wishes_. So either you return him to me right now or you will suffer the consequences. Have I mentioned that his sutures need to be pulled? That his ribs still aren't healed and if left untreated will likely impair him to a point where his execution will be but a boring display of defenseless slaughter? Which might be the desired effect with some criminals, but as far as I remember the Master wants a show with this one."

The words taste vile on his tongue, but Castiel spits them out regardless. "Last time I checked the dungeons were quite dirty. Do you know what sepsis can do to a man?" Castiel presses his fingers into the meat of his thighs, one last effort to keep him from lashing out.

There's an ugly expression on Zachariah's face, something between rage and disgust. Castiel is suddenly struck with the thought that this might very well be his true face.

"Fine." He snaps. "I'll bring him to you so you can treat him." Zachariah is standing now. A last obvious attempt at gaining dominance, but Castiel refuses to rise to the bait and stand up himself. "But I'll have guards watching your every move. You do your thing and then he'll be back at the dungeon where he belongs." Zachariah doesn't wait for a reply, he simply turns around and storms out of the room.

It's cold. Castiel realizes belatedly that the fire isn't burning. The only light source is his one precious oil lamp. The bed he's sitting on - Dean's bed - is cold too. But the coldest spot in the room is right in Castiel's chest.

* * *

Dean is in bad shape when they drag him in. He has been beaten, this much is obvious. But there is a cocky grin on his cheeks and he keeps cracking jokes at the two men flanking him. Not so many days ago Castiel would have been fooled by the attitude. Now however, he can see right through its threadbare cover, underneath of which Dean is barely able to hold it together.

There's something cold and sharp lodged in his throat, and it only grows as he watches how the guards push Dean down on his knees. He's dirty, there are clumps of dirt and blood in his hair and his face is covered in much of the same. He looks even worse than the first time he was brought.

Castiel hesitates for a moment. All he wants is to drop down to his knees and pull Dean into a hug. He wants to reassure himself that Dean is alright, wants to feel his heartbeat with his body. But the guards are still there, watching him with a dispassionate patience that belies their willingness to rat him out to Zachariah if he makes one false step.

He knows this feeling intimately. He was forced to endure it far too often during the past few years; the helplessness in the face of unavoidable death. It's inherent of being a healer, but not every healer has to send his patients out to die day after day. It settles a weight in his chest, heavy and crippling. It takes more energy than it should just to move to get his bag where he stored his equipment for the time he had crashed in Dean's room.

Dean is swaying, the bravado from earlier is all but forgotten now and Castiel has to rush to his side to actually catch him. The guards don't even budge an inch from their position at his sides, watching with the same indifference as Castiel carefully lowers him to rest his back against the bed frame. Dean's arms are pulled behind his back and manacled again, and he slightly winces when his own weight pushes against his arms.

Castiel feels tired all of a sudden. It almost physically hurts to see Dean like this but right now the inevitability of it all just seems to suffocate him. Dean is feverish and it doesn't take a genius to guess that he's caught an infection, and that just means that he might not even make it until the end of the week.

It's moments like this when Castiel can feel his resolve waver. He thought he had gotten used to the inevitability, but then again, it had never been this personal. It's hard to take in a blow like this, but Castiel doesn't want to give up just yet. Dean is still alive, and where life is, there is hope.

Dean groans, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that he's trying to speak. Castiel doesn't bother to check with the guards before he leans in to catch what Dean is saying.

"Cas." Dean's eyes are unfocused and somehow Castiel knows that he is talking to another Castiel, maybe the one in his dreams. Castiel leans closer, the guards behind him temporarily forgotten. "Cas, your eyes…" There's something on Dean's lips that could almost be a smile. It's delirious and weak, but it tugs at something deep inside of Castiel, something he thought he had lost a long time ago.

"I love… your eyes." Dean breathes. There's a soft clunk, as if Dean just tried to lift his arm to reach up for Castiel's face. It's such an incongruous thing to say, but at the same time it's so very Dean. There's that smile again, weak, barely more than a soft tilt of lips, but it's brilliant all the same.

There's a reason why he became a doctor. And there's a reason why he decided to try and save Dean.

Someone clears their throat and with that Castiel is back in reality. He looks up at the guard, putting all the contempt and disgust he feels for them into it and watches with satisfaction as the guard looks away with a frown. He's a doctor, and he has weathered more than one battlefield. He won't let these two assholes stop him.

"Make yourselves useful and get me water and a towel." He snaps, laying every bit of authority he can muster into his voice. One of the guards opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Castiel beats him to it. "Do you want to waste any more time?" He doesn't have to throw Zachariah's name in to get him going. The other remains, doubtless to keep an eye out, but it's still better than nothing.

He manages to lift Dean on top of the bed with some effort, and a lot of complaining grunts from Dean, but he'd rather break his back than let the anyone else touch Dean - not when he can help it. Dean is forced to lie awkwardly on his side due to the handcuffs, but the bed is at least soft. It doesn't look comfortable, but there's nothing Castiel can do. All he can do is try to make it as comfortable as possible and not let the thought of Dean having to leave soon distract him. Zachariah has made it clear that Castiel will only get the time to treat Dean before he'll be taken away again.

It's a painful thought, but Castiel swallows everything down that isn't medical care right now. The guard has returned in the meantime, and Castiel waits until the water is boiling before he starts to treat Dean.

Cleaning Dean the second time is worse than it had been the first time. Each swipe with the wet towel reveals another bruise, another abrasion, another proof of abuse. At least he doesn't have another cut that needs stitching, and his ribs have survived the beating in comparably god shape. But that doesn't make the sight any easier.

Dean wakes up from his delirium while Castiel pulls his stitches, his eyes are still glazed over but he actually focuses on Castiel this time. "Hey Cas." He says weakly. Castiel shushes him with a gentle finger on his lip.

"Don't speak, you need your strength." Castiel is tempted to lean down and kiss Dean, but he's acutely aware that they're not alone. Dean glances past him to where the guards stand next to the door. He smiles wryly, but then his expression shifts back into the smirk Castiel knows so well.

"Mind giving us some privacy?" He calls out, winking at the guards in a way that can only be described as suggestive. Castiel wishes for a short desperate moment that they'll relent and leave them alone, but of course, all Dean gets in reply, is a disdained frown. "Oh come on, no last wish for the dying man?"

The statement is meant as a joke, Castiel knows that, but it still hurts. Because no matter how much lightness Dean puts in his tone, they both know that there is an indisputable truth behind the words.

It gets them another frown and a snort and Dean slightly grimaces. "Thought so. Sorry about that Cas." It's strange. Part of Castiel wants to mourn their lack of privacy, but the other just feels so elevated all of a sudden. Seeing Dean like this, as faked as his façade might be, gives him the strength to believe that they'll find a way out of this.

That's all he needs really. Faith.

And somehow he feels like his faith has no better place to rest than in Dean.

That newfound faith is tested what feels like moments later, but in truth must have been at least half an hour that passed. There's only so much treatment he can fake before he runs out of things to check over. Castiel savors every second he's granted, just touching Dean, even if it's under pretense of checking and treating injuries.

He gave Dean a brew against his fever, but that alone won't do. He'll need to more than just one tea to get rid of the infection, but the guards outright refuse to let him deliver the brews. In the end Castiel has to put his foot down again and threaten them with the consequences until they agree on a compromise. Castiel provides the tea, one of the guards will deliver it.

Dean looks exhausted and the various new bruises have only now gained their full ugly range of coloring. It goes against every one of Castiel's instincts to let him go. He made it very clear that Dean was to be left alone and treated to regular food and drink, but Castiel is in no part delusional that they'll listen to him. And that makes letting Dean go all the more hard.

That night he can't sleep, and it's only partly because his mind is reeling with the effort to conjure a new plan. But mostly it's because he misses Dean's warmth next to him.


End file.
